Academia
by Herstorian3518
Summary: "Any new cases?" I knew I struck a nerve because his shoulders stiffened. He must be tired, I thought, he is usually so inscrutable. It was then that he stopped playing but still faced away from me as he said, "I have a job for you." A young Texas woman becomes Holmes' new roommate and assistant as they both face challenges in the mysteries to be solved, as well as in each other.
1. Chapter 1, Pleasantries

Pleasantries

I stepped off the ship with wobbly legs. My 'sea legs' left something to be desired. I spent the entire trek from Galveston, Texas to London, England cooped up in my cabin, unable to venture far from the toilet. _It will be worth it_, I told myself,_ I'm getting to travel the world._

London lay before me, smoggy and bustling with life. It was already very different from small town Texas, and this was only the port.

Mrs. Hudson was there to receive me at the London pier. She broke the news to me about the change in plans in the carriage ride to Baker Street.

"I'm sorry to say Miss Keaton that I received a letter from your Uncle Ian saying that he's been called to India on short notice. He asked if you may stay with me as one of my tenants until he returns, which might not be for several months." Great. What did I expect? Things never went according to plan, not where I was concerned.

I did not really have the energy to be surprised or disappointed. My lack of sleep began to weigh heavily on me, and I attempted to tuck a long strand of brown wavy hair back into its bun.

"Oh, I'm sorry; I'd never want to be a burden to you Mrs. Hudson." I felt exhausted as I looked at her stern face. The trip across the Atlantic and the swaying of the ship had made me ill, and the jostling of the carriage did not help matters.

"Oh, not to worry dear. I have just the place for you. Your Uncle has arranged to pay for your room and board; I just have one simple task to ask of you." She tugged on her gloves, not looking me in the eye.

"Of course, I would be happy to help you in any way." I had no idea at that moment what she had planned for me.

Upon arriving at 221 B Baker Street, I noticed an odd flash coming from the upstairs window. It was like there was lightening coming from inside the room.

"Oh Mrs. Hudson! There is a strange light coming from the upstairs window! I think the room might be on fire!" My heart began to pound as I turned and tugged on her arm. She simply paid the cabby and said, "Oh no dear, that's just Mr. Holmes." She sighed deeply, as though the knowledge disturbed her, and ushered me through the door.

"Do you mean, _Sherlock _Holmes? The detective?" I knew who he was, he was world famous. My best friend William had always followed news about him in the papers and read stories about his exploits to me.

"Unfortunately, yes."

The entryway was small, with a parlor off to the left, and a hallway straight ahead. She led me up the stairs immediately saying, "I'll show you your room first so that you may get settled." I smelled something burning, but since Mrs. Hudson did not seem alarmed, I saw no reason as to why I should be. I heard a loud noise, but could not place what I thought it was. Mrs. Hudson did not bat an eye, so I simply followed her example. Maybe the neighbors were woodworkers or something.

We reached the first landing, and the stairs wound upward toward the third floor. "This will be your room dear," she led me in through the door on the left and I stopped abruptly.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid I don't understand. I thought you meant for me to have my own room." My stomach sank through my feet. I had only ever shared a room with my sister. The room she showed me was littered with books and papers, chairs and shelves. Writing in ink and paint covered the walls, along with hundreds of small pictures and newspaper articles. Strangely enough, there was no bed, but there was a door in the wall, presumably to the room next door. They must have been connected at one point.

"No, this will be your room. It will be lovely once we tidy up. There are a few, uh, things that have been stored here. Nothing to worry about." She stepped over stacks of boxes and books, a forced smile on her face. "We shall go today and fetch you some furniture. A fresh coat of paint and it will be as good as new." She tried to give me a reassuring smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Suddenly, the door to the next room swung open, and smoke came billowing through. Mrs. Hudson and I began coughing and waving our hands in the air. Thick grey smoke filled the room, blurring our vision. I stepped forward and tripped on something, tumbling to the floor. I couldn't find my bearings in this smog.

A voice emanated from the doorway, echoing, like a demon's voice from a pit, "What are you up to _Nanny_?" The sound of the man's voice sent shivers down my spine. We were still blinded by the smoke, and I sat crumpled on the floor, waiting for it to clear. My eyes watered and it became hard to breathe. The more I struggled, the more I became entangled in the debris.

"I see you are hard at work destroying my establishment Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson coughed. Somehow, she made it to the window and opened it. I knew this because as the smoke began blowing out the newly opened window, two forms became visible. Hers, and another silhouette, presumably that of a man judging by the voice.

Once the smoke cleared somewhat and I could see the man more clearly, the first thing I noticed was how he was dressed. He wore a welder's goggles and apron; dirt and grit covered his face. I could not really discern any of his features; his entire person just looked grey.

He spoke again, "What are you doing in my study, _Nanny_?"

"I am showing Miss Keaton her new room."

"How can it be her room if it is my study?"

"It is your study no longer. Once you stopped paying the rent for two rooms this became open for tenants." By this time the smoke had all but cleared the room, and I got a better look at everything.

The man was shorter than my brothers were, less than six feet; and I could tell he had dark hair. Beyond that, I had no clue. I had become immersed in a sea of papers and string. Dust covered everything in a fine layer. If cleaning up the room had seemed difficult before, it was going to be nearly impossible now.

The man looked in my direction, how he could see anything through his filthy goggles was unfathomable, and stalked over to me, carefully dodging the litter covering the floor.

"I object to this intrusion. I paid the rent last month."

"With a check from Dr. Watson's bank account, that is now closed. If he didn't know you still had his checkbook, he does now." Mrs. Hudson began wafting smoke out the window with a newspaper.

I watched this exchange from the floor. The instant I began to try and get up, I disturbed the dust and the air became cloudy once again. I coughed and sputtered, clambering up despite the layers of dust and clutter. Once I had escaped from the spiders web of string, I stood wheezing, dust falling around me as though it was ash from a volcano. This man's sudden appearance was volcanic if it was anything.

"You must be Mr. Holmes," I held out my hand to shake his and he just looked at it, as though it were a disappointing result of an experiment.

"I don't," was all he said, and his disdainful stare was broken by my suddenly rapid succession of sneezes.

Mrs. Hudson continued as if he had not spoken. "You have one hour to remove your things. Anything that remains will be thrown out into the street." She strode over the junk pile, took me by the elbow, and escorted me out of the room. I looked back in time to see the man huff back into his lair, slamming the door behind him.

That was my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

By the time Mrs. Hudson and I had cleaned up, and returned from running our errands, all of the debris had been cleared from my room. All that remained was the dust. I had never seen so much dust in my life.

Mrs. Hudson had to call in reinforcements, and I met Maggie, the house-maid. It took the three of us three days to sweep, mop, and paint the walls. The cabinets took so long to paint; I never wanted to paint again in my lifetime. While the paint dried, I shared a room with Maggie on the third floor and learned more about her life than I knew about most people close to me. By the time the paint had dried, Mrs. Hudson and I had procured some modest furniture with my Uncle Ian's allowance, and I was allowed back in 'my' room, formally known as Mr. Holmes's study.

I moved into my room with trepidation. At any moment, I expected my neighbor to come barging in, demanding I relinquish his territory. I couldn't help the thought that I was invading his space, but Mrs. Hudson was the land-lady, and what she said went.

"Dear, he would take over the entire building if I let him."

During the time we were cleaning, I did not see him once. I felt relieved, afraid every encounter with him might be as theatrical as our 'introduction'. He seemed a bit of a recluse, and when I asked if Mrs. Hudson ever saw him leave his room, she said,

"I see the evidence of his excursions outside his room by the broken dishes and stains in the carpet. He's much like a rat, you rarely see him but you know he's there by the mess he leaves."

I wrote to my family to let them know about the change in plans, and Uncle Ian informing him of my arrival. Within the first week of living on Baker Street, I had carved out my niche in Holmes' kingdom. I soon found out I would have to defend my right to occupy this space often, and the first occurrence of his defensive attitude toward my presence happened the morning after I had 'moved in'.

As I sat down to breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, she brought up the task she had referred to on our carriage ride.

"Miss Keaton, I have a request to make of you." She kindly poured me a cup of tea, and I had a sudden feeling of dread.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson? And do please call me Catherine." I tried to sound as calm as I could. What could she possibly ask of me that would be so terrible? I was overreacting.

"As per my agreement with your Uncle, your room and board is covered by his monthly stipend, but we agreed that there are a few small tasks you could do to 'help around the house' as it were."

"Yes mam; please let me know anything I can do to help you. You've been so kind to let me stay here." A sense of foreboding settled over me. My hand shook as I placed my fork back on the plate.

"Well, Catherine," she paused, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, "Maggie and I have chores to attend to. She does the washing and cleaning, Mrs. Gosling does the cooking, I oversee the household and handle the finances. But, I have thought of a job for you."

Please let it be cleaning the toilet. Please, please please…

"I think I shall have you look after Mr. Holmes." ….what?

"I'm afraid I don't understand." I really didn't. What did she mean 'look after'? Did he need a caretaker or something? He seemed able bodied when I met him.

"Well, it's very simple really. All I need you to do is bring him his meals, mend his clothes, pick up his laundry, tidy up his room occasionally, and maybe make his tea. Nothing too strenuous, I assure you." She glanced up at me from behind her teacup. I sensed a hidden agenda, but what could I do? She was providing me with a place to stay and food. She didn't have to let me stay here, even if my Uncle paid her. She could send me back to Texas anytime she wished.

"O-of course. That should be no trouble at all. I would be delighted." Oh good lord, what had I gotten myself into? I might wish I was back in Texas when Holmes was finished with me.

"Wonderful." She spoke louder, "Mrs. Gosling, would you mind bringing in the tray?" It seemed like Mrs. Gosling was just waiting for her cue, because she immediately stepped in the room from the entrance to the kitchen with a tray of food.

"Oh, you mean, I should take him food right now?" Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I had not even had time to prepare myself; to put on armor, or fetch a gun, or anything.

"Yes, that would be most helpful." Mrs. Gosling moved to stand next to me, tray in hand. I rose from my unfinished plate, I could not eat anymore even if I tried, and took the tray from her hand. The china trembled as I took hold.

"Good luck dearie," was Mrs. Gosling's whispered blessing as I approached the stairs. The last thing I saw before I ascended was the look exchanged between the two women. It was a mix of apprehension and relief.

I took extra time climbing the stairs. I told myself it was to keep the tea from spilling. Once I reached his door, I stood there for a few moments, unsure of my next move. Should I knock? Do I just leave the tray outside the door? Do I just knock and run?

Before I had time to decide, the door was wrenched open, and Sherlock Holmes stood in front of me. At least, that is who I thought it was. I had not really gotten a good look at him during our first meeting.

"Can I help you?" He drawled, bored already and I had not even spoken. Once I finally saw him, I felt underwhelmed. He was a man of medium height, as I had first witnessed, wearing a frayed dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. His black hair was disheveled, his beard unshaven, his robe was tattered, and his feet were bare. What finally caught me were his eyes. He had large dark eyes, a straight nose, and a strong chin. I blushed without really knowing why. Probably from embarrassment, possibly from his strange appearance, more than likely it was from the way he looked at me. His gaze was unnerving, cold and calculating, taking in everything he saw.

"Um, breakfast," was my reply. I moved the tray toward him, and he drew back, appalled.

"So they've sent you into the lion's den have they? Draw the short straw?" He said it so flatly, it took me a moment to understand that he was being sarcastic.

"Um, it's my job now." Brilliant, just….brilliant.

"How am I supposed to eat it with you holding it in the hallway?" How is it that he hardly blinked?

"You could take the tray."

"Oh no. I don't." He didn't move an inch. "Obviously you've never served breakfast before."

"What _do_ you do?" I thoroughly surprised myself with my cheek.

"I'm terribly good at slamming doors." He shut the door in my face so abruptly, I drew back. The exchange took place so quickly, I hardly had time to realize what just happened. Once I came back to my senses, I felt both offended and relieved. How dare he shut the door in my face? _But it could've been so much worse…_ said a small voice in my head.

Unsure about what to do with the food, I contemplated leaving it in front of his door. I bent down to lay the tray on the floor, but before I could set it down, a voice called out from inside the room, "Don't bother."

I swayed, my balance upset by his sudden reaction. What, could he see through wood? How on earth did he know…?

_Just leave_, said the same logical voice as before. Very well. If he wanted to eat he would have to come and get it himself. I had fulfilled my duty, I had brought him his tray. The deed was done.

If our first encounter was any indication, taking him his trays would be easier than I thought. All I had to do was take it up and come back down. Our next real conversation would incur a more 'heated' reaction from me.


	2. Chapter 2, Mysteries after Midnight

Mysteries after Midnight, New Chapter 2

Our third meeting was quite a bit more elaborate than our first or second. During the second week of my stay; I had been bringing Holmes his trays for a few days with no apparent success, I was awake in the middle of the night. I sat up, writing a letter to my sister, when there was a rapid succession of knocks at my door. At two in the morning, there was only one possibility of who it could be, but before I could even say 'Come in,' an obviously harried Sherlock Holmes swung open my door.

"Miss uh-ah-" and he snapped his fingers, pointing at me. I let him suffer for a moment before I relieved him from his misery.

"Keaton."

"Yes, Keaton. Bring tea and biscuits for three. I'm expecting guests."

I stared in surprise. "I beg your pardon? Why can't you get it?" What was he on about? It was two in the morning.

"I thought it was your 'job now' to fetch me things. Make yourself presentable and serve the tea, post haste."

"Did you even consider that I might be asleep? What would you have done then?"

"I would have woken you up. Now, off with you!" He shut the door and I heard him stomp back to his room. He was serious.

I suddenly felt very anxious. I had never 'prepared tea' before on such short notice. How did they even take their tea?

I sat for a moment, collecting myself. Do I get dressed? What - ?

A knock resounded from the other side of the door to Holmes' room, "Come along woman!" Oh dear.

I stood up, wrapped the only shawl I owned around my shoulders, and descended to the kitchen in my robe and slippers. I did the best I could; I put a pot of tea on to boil, placed the cups and saucers, and foraged for a few cookies from the cupboard. While the tea was heating up, the bell that indicated someone was at the door rang. Uh oh, that was fast.

I raced up the basement stairs up to the hallway. I could not believe I was about to answer the door to two strange men in my nightclothes. This was ridiculous. "Coming!" I shouted as I approached the door.

I swung open the door to see two men, one dressed as a police officer and the other in plainclothes. One was significantly taller than the other was, and they both had facial hair of some sort. They looked at me in slight surprise, not expecting either my appearance or me.

"Good evening gentlemen. I believe Mr. Holmes is expecting you. I'm Catherine Keaton, I moved in to Dr. Watson's old residence." I reached my hand forward in genial welcome, despite my frayed nerves.

"Lovely to meet you madam. I am Officer Clark, and this is," the taller mustached policeman gestured to the shorter man in a bowler hat.

"Inspector Lestrade mam. May we come in?"

"Oh yes, of course." I stood aside to allow them entry. They immediately began climbing the stairs to Holmes' room.

"Excuse us madam." Officer Clark tipped his hat to me as they ascended.

Once the men went upstairs, I returned to the kitchen where the teapot was whistling and about to boil over. I considered taking two trips; I had never been very good at carrying trays of breakable things up staircases. No, that would be ridiculous. I had to do this in one trip. I piled the dishes and tea onto the largest tray I could find, and began the long, slow trek upstairs. About halfway up I realized I had forgotten the spoons and the sugar, and my confidence wavered. Ugh, I was just not cut out for servants work, I got flustered too easily. I surely did not have the dexterity that Mrs. Hudson and Maggie demonstrated with a tray full of china.

The tray was so heavy; I knocked with the toe of my slipper at Holmes' door. I heard "It's about time." and maneuvered the tray to open the door with a free hand. Of course he was not about to help me. I stepped in, the china rattling on the tray in my trembling hands. The three men stood in the middle of the room talking. I was suddenly at a loss. Where do I put the tray? Do I serve them?

"Um, Mr. Holmes, where would you like - ?"

Holmes gestured without looking at me to a tiny table in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace, "Over there."

I slowly made my way to the table and had just set the tray down when,

"Miss Keaton."

"Y-yes?"

"Have you ever served tea before?"

"No sir."

"I thought as much. Where's the sugar?"

"In the kitchen."

"And how may we use it when it is still in the kitchen?" I grew irritated, why was he being so rude?

"Once I go down and get it you may use it just fine." I added, my voice biting with sarcasm, "In the mean time why don't you use your finger to stir it, as you are just so sweet yourself?"

This caught the attention of the other two men, and they glanced in my direction. I flushed, and attempted to brush past them and out the door to fetch the remaining utensils when Holmes asked,

"What do you know of Rodney Ashcroft?"

This question caught me off guard. I turned around to be sure he was addressing me. "You're asking me?"

"I should say so, I'm looking at you aren't I?"

"How would you think I know anything about Rodney Ashcroft?"

He sighed in irritation, "Do you know of him or don't you?"

I paused, trying to collect my senses. "I know of 'a' Rodney Ashcroft. He's a cattle baron down in Texas. He's one of the wealthiest men in the state. The father of a friend of mine does business with him."

"And the name of this friend and their father?"

"William Gutierrez, his father is Ignacio Gutierrez."

Inspector Lestrade spoke up, "That Gutierrez fellow sounds familiar. Doesn't he do business in Mexico?"

"Yes, he owns silver mines in Mexico and ranches all over Texas."

The three men looked at each other, and then back at me.

Holmes said, "Tell us everything you know about Rodney Ashcroft and his relationship with Ignacio Gutierrez."

I stared in surprise, why would they be interested in what I knew?

"Does this have something to do with an investigation?"

"It might, now if you would just tell us what you know, that would be of the utmost help." Holmes blinked at me with impatience.

"Well, my father actually owns a ranch in South Texas, that's how I first heard of Rodney Ashcroft. He tried everything he could to buy my father's land from him, so he would have a clear path to drive cattle down to Mexico. My father refused to do business with him, but when William came to us on behalf of Ignacio, asking us to do business with them instead of Ashcroft, my father relented. William arranged for his father to rent land from my father to drive the cattle across our land, instead of trying to purchase it directly as Ashcroft had. We found out later that Ignacio Gutierrez and Ashcroft were working together, but in reality, it was the best arrangement for us. My family was afraid of what might happen if we angered Rodney Ashcroft. He's been known to harass those smaller ranchers and farmers who have ever stood in his way."

Holmes's gaze was far away, "Excellent. What else?"

"Well, I only know as much else as anyone in Texas knows. He's always in the papers, news about his recent purchases, maybe gossip about his wife or son. I know he left his wife for his mistress about a year ago. That's about it."

"What was the name of his former mistress?"

"Louisa, Louisa…Alvarez I think. She was married to a businessman by the name of Emilio Alvarez before he died." Who would have thought that knowing a little about Texas gossip would pay off in London, England?

The three men seemed to be hanging on my every word. "What's going on? Why do you want to know about Rodney Ashcroft?"

"I'm afraid, madam that - " began Inspector Lestrade, but before he could dismiss me Holmes interjected,

"Because Rodney Ashcroft was found murdered in his hotel room here in London two hours ago."

I gasped, and stepped backward. "Rodney Ashcroft has been murdered?"

Officer Clark stepped in, "Please madam, keep this to yourself. It will reach the papers by tomorrow but we are trying to keep the details away from the press."

"Of, of course. Is there…is there anything else I can do to help?"

"Not at the moment, I believe we have enough to run with at present, right Lestrade?" Holmes turned to a slightly perturbed looking Inspector.

"Certainly. Thank you madam, you've been most helpful." The Inspector and Officer Clark rose to leave, nodding and saying parting words to Holmes.

I stood back as the two men left the room, my mind whirling. Rodney Ashcroft was dead. How did Holmes know that I would know who he was or that I had information that would help them? I must write to William about this.

Once Holmes closed the door behind the two visitors, he turned to me. "Well, you are off the hook about the sugar this time."

I ignored him. "How did you know I would know anything about Rodney Ashcroft? How could you know that? We've hardly even spoken."

"Call it a hunch."

I went on; I knew more about him than he thought. "You don't make hunches. You're a detective; you must have evidence to make deductions, so you found something that told you I would know who Rodney Ashcroft was." He looked at me blankly, striding over to the table with his hands behind his back.

I gasped as the realization hit me, "Good lord, you've been reading my mail, haven't you?"

"I might've glanced at it on occasion."

"Why you…you squirrelly little man! How _dare _you read my mail? That is an invasion of my privacy, and might I add, most likely illegal."

"It's not, not yet." He sat down to tea, drinking it black.

I was fuming. But, how do you react when a complete stranger who also happens to live next door tells you they've read your mail? I wanted to thrash him, but knew that would only either amuse him or get me in trouble.

All he had to do was look at the addresses on the letters I posted. I had written to my Uncle, my sister, my mother, and my friend William. William's name might have caught his attention. He would've known my family owned a ranch by reading the letters to my mother and sister. He knew I was from Texas.

"I cannot _believe _this. You've been reading my mail. What else have you done? Looked through my clothes? Rummaged through my personal belongings?" I crossed my arms in front of me. The absolute gall of this man.

"No, I haven't." The 'not yet' hung in the air, unsaid.

"Who do you think you _are_?"

"It was simply part of investigative mission. Do contain yourself madam."

"No it wasn't! The man was just killed tonight; you've been reading my mail for the past week, _before_ the murder."

"It was a mere coincidence, a coincidence that worked in my favor. You should be grateful; you might've been able to break a very difficult case."

"Swear to me you will no longer read my mail." I pointed at him, my voice growing sharp.

"It's rude to point." He looked at me with wide, seemingly innocent eyes.

"And it's not to read another person's private correspondence?"

"I never said it wasn't"

"Stop avoiding the topic. Promise me you will respect my privacy and no longer read my mail." I raised my voice. I never thought I would need to yell at a man who was practically a stranger for reading my mail.

"Fine, I promise,"

"Good" I was satisfied, and released the breath I had not realized I was holding.

"-until the occasion calls for it." He continued sipping his tea. I'm sure my eyes nearly bugged out of my head.

"What?! Why would the occasion ever call for it?" My voice reached the high pitch reserved for total and complete disbelief.

"Madam, you are asking me to predict the future. You are being entirely unreasonable." He rose to stride about the room.

I sputtered, "You, you-"

He just looked at me, picking up his violin and plucking it with his fingers. I was at a loss.

"Forget it," I was exasperated, "I'm trying to reason with a madman, I can easily see that. Fine, go ahead with your rude, invasive, bull-headed behavior, but remember this," I stepped forward, using my finger to exact my point once more. I used the tone of voice that was known among my friends and family as reserved only for small children, rambunctious animals; and now Sherlock Holmes.

"Remember that this invasion of privacy works both ways," he raised an eyebrow at me.

"Oh yes, it's a two-way street mister. If nothing of mine is sacred, nothing of yours is either. Consider yourself warned." I saw something flash behind his eyes, was it amusement? Intrigue? I had challenged him, and I had the feeling very few people ever did that. A sense of foreboding settled in my stomach. It was too late now, the line was drawn.

"I'm done for the night. Clean the dishes up yourself." I turned around to leave, stalking towards the door. I had just exited when he added,

"Do remember the sugar next time Miss Keaton."

In my infinite wisdom I muttered, "_You_ remember the sugar." under my breath, slamming the door behind me. I shuddered at the sudden noise, and decided if either Mrs. Hudson or Maggie asked about the ruckus tomorrow I would simply blame it on Holmes. It was his fault anyway.

I did not get to sleep until sunrise. Maggie had to come and wake me.

"It's time to get up Miss Catherine. 'ave you gotten much sleep? You look exhausted."

"It was Holmes. He kept me up all night."

"Aw, I'm sorry Miss. 'e'll do that. It's that bloomin violin it is. If it 'elps, you do get used to it after a while."

"Thank you Maggie, is it time to serve breakfast?"

"Afraid so Miss."

"Very well, back to work." I sighed.

I rose, dressed, and exited my room to go downstairs. On the way down, I glanced at Holmes' door, and noticed the tea tray outside. I huffed, and went back up to retrieve it. Once I got up close enough, I noticed a note on top of the teapot. I opened it with trepidation.

"I'm looking forward to learning what your mother thinks about your sister's new beau. I agree with your grandmother, goats' milk is infinitely better for the skin than cow's milk. Tell her to start making her soaps from that. She'll make a pretty penny.

P.S. - Don't forget the sugar.

-H"

I forced the smile that had formed from my face. My emotional state ran the gamut from indignation, to embarrassment, anger, amusement, and finally, resignation.

So be it. The game was on.


	3. Chapter 3, Meetings and Greetings

Meetings and Greetings

The morning I received my note from Holmes, I also met Dr. Watson and his wife, Mary.

After I had fetched the paper and brought Holmes his breakfast and mail (all the seals broken, just for good measure) I was taking the tray downstairs when I heard a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson said from downstairs, "Would you get that Catherine?"  
"Yes mam."

I went towards the door, tray in hand. Upon opening it I saw a handsome man in a tall hat, wearing a fashionable mustache and dressed stylishly. On his arm was a lovely redheaded woman with kind grey eyes.

"Good morning, how can I help you?"  
"Good morning, I am Dr. Watson, and this is Mrs. Watson. May we come in? I'm a friend of Mr. Holmes. Is he in presently?"  
"Ah, the famous Dr. Watson, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Yes, Mr. Holmes is in. Mrs. Hudson has mentioned you before. My name is Catherine Keaton, I'm staying in your old room."  
He smiled, "How are you holding up?" I moved aside to let them in. I sighed, searching for the right words. He eyed me, "That well, eh?"  
"It's been…an experience."  
"You are too kind." Dr. Watson removed his hat and helped his wife with her coat, deftly holding his cane beneath his arm.

She turned around and held her hand out, "Hello Miss Keaton, I'm Mary Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you."  
I grasped her hand. "The pleasure is all mine. Have the both of you had breakfast? Shall I fetch some tea?"  
I liked Mary Watson instantly. She seemed sincere yet polite. A difficult combination to obtain.  
"I think some tea would be nice." She looked to her husband, "Will you be joining us John, or can you and Mr. Holmes tend to yourselves?"  
"Oh, don't worry about us. The old man probably won't come down for some time. Go on without us."  
"Very well, I think Miss Keaton and I shall get to know one another." She smiled down at me, she was tall, taller than me at five foot five inches.  
Dr. Watson ascended the stairs, "You ladies enjoy yourselves. Nice to meet you Miss Keaton." he nodded at me, a smile behind his blue eyes.  
"Nice to meet you Dr. Watson." I turned to Mary. "Shall we go into the parlor Mrs. Watson?"  
"Oh please, call me Mary. That would be lovely. Maybe Mrs. Hudson can join us."  
"I'll let her know you're here." I guided Mary to the parlor, just for the sake of being a good hostess, and then went downstairs to speak to Mrs. Hudson.  
"Dr. and Mrs. Watson are here. I need some tea for Mrs. Watson. She's asked if you could join us Mrs. Hudson."  
Mrs. Hudson seemed in a better mood this morning. She had not had to deal with Holmes for some time due to my new role as his 'keeper'.  
"Oh Miss Mary is here. How lovely. I'll be right out." I took the tray she prepared upstairs to the parlor.

Mary had removed her hat, and her lovely red hair sat in neat curls.  
"Mrs. Hudson will be right up." I saw down and poured the tea.  
"Thank you. How long have you lived here Miss Keaton?" She added sugar and took a sip.  
"Just about two weeks."  
"You are from America, am I correct?"  
"Yes mam. Texas, to be precise."  
"And what does your family do in Texas?"  
"My father runs the family ranch while my mother handles the finances."  
"How did you come to be in London?"  
"At first," I added sugar to my own tea, "I was supposed to come here and stay with my Uncle Ian, my grandmother's eldest brother. He works for the Navy, and was on assignment in Ireland. He invited me to visit him, but on my way here, Mrs. Hudson received a telegram saying he had been ordered to report to India, and would not return for some time. Her late husband and my Uncle were good friends. She invited me to stay here in London while my Uncle is away, and so far, I've enjoyed it very much. Mrs. Hudson is so kind to allow me to live here."  
"Well, that's wonderful. We simply must get together sometime. Why don't you come over for dinner next week? I'll ask John if Mr. Holmes wants to attend."  
"That would be wonderful, I'd be delighted." I genuinely smiled. She was the first person I had met other than the other women in the household. Maybe she could show me a bit about London.

It was at about that time that our attention turned to the stairwell, as we heard a swift succession of steps descending.  
"Holmes, -" I recognized Dr. Watson's voice, he sounded irritated.  
"Ladies," Sherlock Holmes entered the room, "May we join you for some tea?" Holmes spread his arms wide, and then clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms, as though nothing in the world would please him more than tea with us.  
"Why certainly Mr. Holmes. Please do. We simply thought you and John might like some time alone to catch up." Mary smiled at a perturbed Watson.  
At that moment Mrs. Hudson entered the room, but she was too much of a lady to let the disappointment of seeing Holmes show too much in her face.  
"Mr. Holmes, you're up and about quite early." She stood at the entrance to the room, unwilling to enter.  
"Two more place settings Nanny. Unless, you are willing to join us as well?" His voice sounded villainous, as though he had some devious plan in mind for her.  
She did not even bother to try and stifle her sigh, "No thank you. I shall fetch the extra cups."  
"You've broken my heart Nanny. I'm beginning to think you have a distaste for me."  
"I can't imagine why. I still haven't had you committed. Though, don't push your luck." She exited the room.

Holmes and Watson took seats in the chairs across from the sofa Mary and I occupied. Mrs. Hudson re-entered, set down the tea cups, and exited without a word.  
"I wanted to thank you Miss Keaton for opening my mail for me this morning. I'll be sure and return the favor." Holmes scooted his chair up to the coffee table, pouring he and Watson some tea.  
I could tell by the look on Watson's face he found this comment odd. He decided to change the subject.  
"Any good cases at the moment Holmes?"  
Holmes responded before popping an entire cookie into his mouth, "Just one, but I've already solved it. With Miss Keaton's help I might add." He cheeks puffed out due to the amount of cookie and he resembled a chipmunk momentarily. I snorted into my tea cup.  
Mary turned to me, intrigued. "Really, how so?"  
"Mr. Holmes simply asked me about a subject I knew. There was a murder last night, and I happened to be familiar with the history of the victim."  
Watson spoke up, "Do you mean that Ashcroft fellow? The one found murdered in his bed?"  
Holmes answered, "The very same."  
Mary asked, "How did you know him?"  
"I only knew 'of' him. He is, or was, well known back in Texas. He was a very rich, very greedy man. He was always in the papers. He did business with the father of a friend of mine."  
I addressed Holmes, "Have you found out who did it?"  
"Did what?"  
"Committed the murder."  
"Oh, you should have specified. I'll have to teach you proper English."  
Watson reprimanded him softly, "Holmes."  
"Well, she didn't specify. It was his mistress-turned wife."  
"Really? How do you know?" I was interested in his methods.  
"It was quite simple once you told us about his personal life. He was staying in the hotel under a false name. It was not even one of the nicer hotels, which led me to believe he was there in secret. Upon examining the evidence, a few stray blonde hairs, a smattering of lipstick, the scent of perfume lingering on the sheets, it was obvious he had been with a woman. Reports said his new wife was still in the United States, so of course the evidence of a woman in his room was interesting. As it turns out, after a minor investigation, she believed he was being unfaithful to her, and rightly so. She had him followed to London by a private detective. Here he met another woman, and within the week span he was here, his wife came over on a steam ship, stalked him, killed him, and attempted to leave the country under a false identity. If it hadn't been for one piece of evidence she might' gotten away with it too."  
"What was the evidence?" Watson wasn't as fascinated as Mary and I. He was used to Holmes' methods.  
"She left a loose end. The man she had follow Ashcroft sold her out. It seems the exorbitant amount of money she paid him wasn't enough to keep him quiet."

"Fascinating. So, when planning a murder, never leave any witnesses is what you are saying?" I meant it as a joke, but I saw something hard flit behind Holmes's eyes. It was there and gone in a flash, but I had definitely noticed it. It wasn't imagined.

"First rule of crime. You cannot trust anyone." He continued to sip his tea, but I could tell the mood had changed. Watson seemed uncomfortable and Mary had her eyes downcast.  
"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?" I felt suddenly guilty and embarrassed.  
Watson stepped in, "Of course not. We're simply having a conversation about a case. Are there any other promising mysteries on the horizon Holmes?"  
"Not at present, but you never know when Lestrade may need help finding his wallet." Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out a billfold.  
Watson looked amused, instead of taken aback, "You didn't,"  
I was incredulous, "You stole that poor man's wallet. Oh good lord."  
"How does everyone feel about lunch courtesy of Scotland Yard?"

After lunch we took a walk through the park. Holmes and Watson went on ahead while Mary and I walked behind.  
"It seems you and Mr. Holmes are getting along, as much as one can with him."  
"I'm not sure yet. He has been reading my mail. I have a sneaking suspicion he's been through my things as well."  
"John said when they lived together Mr. Holmes would always steal his clothes."  
"If I see him in my dresses I just might have to cause him bodily injury." She laughed.  
"He's welcome to my corsets though."  
"John said he's disguised himself as a woman before. That may not be as farfetched as you would think." It was my turn to laugh.  
"Are you saying he," I spoke in hushed tones, "he cross-dresses?"  
She smiled mischievously, "Not quite, but anything it takes to solve a case, he's willing to do it."

I looked at the backs of the two men. Watson was talking animatedly abut something. Holmes' head was cocked to the side, the profile of his hat and sunglasses stark against the green of the trees along the path.

"They seem very close," I said.  
"They are as close to brothers as two men can get. They would do anything for each other. They've risked their lives for one another. I'm grateful John has someone he's so close to."  
"I find it so funny that Holmes would find anyone he could stand, or that could stand him."  
"John was devastated when we all thought Mr. Holmes had died. You've never seen a man in more shock than when his best friend has come back from the dead."  
"That's right, I remember reading about that. I cannot believe he let everyone think he was dead."  
"John and I believe he did not totally plan on surviving the Moriarty case. It just so happens that he did. I'm so glad he's back, just for John's sake."  
"How long have you two been together, if you don't mind me asking?"  
"We will be married six months at the end of the month."  
"Are you looking forward to starting a family?" I saw her frown slightly.  
"Yes, if we are so lucky. John and I both want children, but I'm afraid I may have waited too long to have them."  
I empathized with her, there was little chance I would ever have children myself, not at my age.  
"There's still time. I'm sorry I brought it up. I seem to have a knack for saying the wrong things today." I stepped closer and laid my hand on her arm. She smiled at me.  
"Not to worry. If it is meant to be, it will be." She put her hand over mine.

The four of us continued our walk through the park until we reached the end of the path. Mary and Watson parted ways with us in the afternoon, waving goodbye from the windows of a carriage.

I stood with Holmes, strangely at ease with him at the moment.  
"You two seem like very good friends." I found myself smiling. I had not had such an enjoyable day in quite some time.  
"You and Mary seemed to be getting along swimmingly." We began walking down the street, weaving in and out of the crowds of passersby. I had no idea where we were and relied on Holmes to know the way back.  
"She's lovely. I've never had very many female friends. Just my sister really."  
We came upon a large group of people that threatened to separate us. As there were many alleyways ahead, I grabbed the back of his coat to keep pace with him. He turned to look at me over his sunglasses.  
"Sorry, I'm not used to such crowds. Back in town it is not even this crowded on main street at noon." I let go of his coat as soon as we had made our turn around a building. I trembled slightly with nervousness. I shouldn't have made contact with him. It had just been instinctive.  
"You don't like crowds?"  
"Not very much, no. So many people make me nervous." I felt embarrassed, how did I know he would not use this information to his advantage in the future? With Holmes you never knew what he might be stowing away for future reference.

We continued down another alleyway, this one darker and much more nefarious. I walked more closely to Holmes. As we came to a corner, all of a sudden about ten children seemed to appear out of nowhere. Holmes stopped abruptly.  
"Mind your pockets," he whispered. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my dress.  
"Wat's the password?" One little boy, he couldn't be more than maybe 8 or 10 glared at us. He wasn't the oldest, but he seemed to be the leader.  
"Squatternutbash." Said Holmes.  
"Nope."  
"Queen Victoria's drawers."  
"Nuhuh."  
"Hmm, we seem to be at an impasse then."  
"Reckon so." The children formed a line in front of us, blocking our path.  
"Oh, now I remember." Holmes reached into his pocket, took out two coins, and tossed them to the boy. He glanced at them and nodded gravely. They parted, and Holmes walked through. I went to follow, but they jumped in front of me. I squealed.  
"Holmes!"  
"What?" he looked at me expectantly.  
"What do I do?"  
"You must pay the toll." I couldn't believe this. I took another look at the children. They were obviously hungry and homeless. They may not have eaten in days.  
From the few coins I had fisted in my hands, I took out two, I presumed they would be enough, and went to hand them to the boy.  
As my hand left my pocket, I felt the slightest touch on my hip. I looked down, and one little girl ran away.

"Run fer it!" Shouted a tiny voice, and all the children scattered in seconds, all but the one boy.  
"Wha? But, hey! Come back here you little monsters!" I yelled in vain.  
"Holmes!" I shouted indignantly.  
"Don't look at me, I told you to mind your pockets." His face looked immobile.  
I huffed, "Urgh. Fine, but only because they're starving children." I thrust the coins at the remaining boy, and he looked at my hand.  
"Nah, don't trouble yaself madam. I'll let it slide cause you're so pretty. But on'y dis once."  
"You are too kind," I growled. If I was not mistaken, I saw the corner of Holmes' mouth lift up ever so slightly.  
"Night then Bobby." Holmes tipped his hat at the boy and turned away.  
"Night Mr. 'olmes."  
Bobby winked at me, "Night missus." I was stunned.

I came to my senses finally and hurried after Holmes. I had no more money if the children should come back.  
"I can't believe you let them do that." My feelings were hurt. He didn't even try to protect from those street urchins.  
"Such are the laws of the land my lady." I pouted.  
"Don't pout. It's unbecoming." This only served to intensify my pout.  
"My brother would've whipped you if he knew you had left me to those wolves."  
"Those 'wolves' you speak of are my associates. Bobby is quite the up and coming detective."  
"They work for you? What do they do? Just rob people?"  
"Don't be so crass. There is no better spy in the world than a seemingly innocent child."  
"Hmph." was my answer.

My feelings continued to be hurt until we rounded the corner. Holmes ducked into a camouflaged door in the side of a building.  
"Come along. I have something I need to retrieve."  
"What are you about to subject me to now?"  
"Don't be so dramatic. You sound like Watson."

We had entered a large, empty warehouse. On one side there was a fence in the middle of the floor shaped like an octagon. What looked like a bar stood behind it, against a wall.  
Holmes began climbing a narrow staircase up to a second floor. I followed him up the creaking stairs, and we entered into a small room filled with various vials and beakers and a few pieces of furniture. I saw an actual bed, that particular article was absent from Holmes' room on Baker Street.

"What is this place? You're secret hideaway? Your laboratory?" I looked at the science equipment.  
"In a manner of speaking." Holmes walked over to a shelf on the wall, pocketed his sunglasses, and reached for a vial. I had no idea what was in it, I wasn't close enough. He simply slipped it inside his coat and made for the door. I followed him out and we exited the building..

"What was that thing? That wall in the floor?"  
"It is a boxing ring."  
"Do you box?"  
"On occasion."  
"Do you win?"  
"Every time." I couldn't help but smile. I had never pictured him as the 'athletic' kind. He was rather slender and wiry. He was probably the type that would surprise you with his agility.

We walked all the way back to Baker street. Upon entering the foyer he simply dashed up the stairs, two at a time.  
"Good night Miss Keaton." and he was gone, I heard the door to his room shut, and I was alone.  
"Good night Mr. Holmes," I said to myself softly.

I didn't bother bringing him dinner that night. I didn't think he wanted it. For some reason I had the feeling he wanted to be alone. So I let him.


	4. Chapter 4, The Science of Deduction

**Author's Note: **If you become intrigued by this story and would like to contact me over facebook you can find me by looking for HerStorian, all one word. I'd love to hear from you guys and appreciate any input and reviews you'd like to give.

The Science of Deduction

The rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window. All I could hear was the rain, the rain and my own breathing. If I buried my head in the pillows, I heard my heartbeat thud above every other noise. I willed the sound to lull me to sleep. Moments. Hours. Nothing.

My throat tightened and my eyes began to sting. No, I wouldn't cry. Self-pity enveloped my heart just as tightly as the quilt I was wrapped in, and I struggled harder to steady my breathing. It grew warmer under the covers and my hand searched for a cool spot beneath my pillow. As I shivered at the change in temperature I felt the knot in my chest loosen. I needed to breath. It was better to do it in one quick movement. How far was my robe? It should be hanging on the desk chair.

One. Two. Three…. I took a deep breath, and threw the covers off as I stood and stumbled toward my robe. The chill crept up my skin like icy fingers as I shrugged on my robe and blindly grappled around for slippers. I shivered as I slinked back to my bed, sitting in the warmth that still radiated there and pulled the quilt around me. The moonlight shone through the drapes, I had forgotten to close them before going to bed. The light was strangely comforting considering I liked to sleep in complete darkness. I watched my shadow shift across the floor as I rocked myself on the bed. As my body blocked the moonlight from hitting the bottom of my bedroom door, I saw a faint yellow light filter through the space beneath the door.

He must still be up, I thought. I felt a faint sense of security knowing that he was also awake at this ungodly hour. Although, his sleep habits were unusual, his being awake at this time of night probably related to some various case or experiment, where as my only reason was insomnia. I had an idea, and before I could stop myself I slipped off the bed and gently eased open my bedroom door trying to counter the squeaky joints by putting pressure into the frame. I slipped through and padded across the hall, up to where the light beneath his door washed over my feet. As bright as the feeble light seemed in the pitch black hallway landing, there was no warmth to it. Was his fire lit? Maybe just candles. I froze, still as a statue with my heart pounding in my ears. What was I doing? Going up to a man's door in the dead of night – and in my nightgown no less!

A nonsensical part of me wanted to knock on the door, to not be alone and have my imagination drag me into a depressed stupor until exhaustion was finally able to pull me into numbness. But, I knew, although I had never consciously realized it till this moment, that he was not like other men, he would not think me forward or unladylike for going to him. He would either be disgruntled at being interrupted in his thought processes or curious as to what I was up to. Either way, I just wanted to know that I wasn't the only one not sleeping in London at that moment, relatively speaking. I always felt totally alone, even when surrounded by people. Yet, here he was, a few feet beyond, just as awake as I, as evidenced when I heard a scuffle of feet and shuffling of papers. I was oddly comforted, and I couldn't put my finger on why, and as I stood there debating my next move, staring at my feet, the light grew larger as his door opened inward barely an inch with a creek. My head shot up just as I heard a gravelly voice whisper, "Who goes there? Friend or foe?"

Somehow I channeled the gasp I had suddenly inhaled into a quivering, "Guess." With my heart in my throat I watched his eye appear at the crack, his body block the light, then the door swing open, seemingly in welcome. I was trembling as I stepped across the threshold and I couldn't see him anywhere in front of me.

"Are you accustomed to your enemies announcing themselves?" – I asked quietly as I surveyed his territory. Papers were plastered across the wall above the desk, and anywhere there weren't papers there was writing directly on the wall. Open books and newspapers covered the desk, couch, and floor across the room.

His drapes were drawn and I noticed the fire burned down to embers with scraps of paper no longer of use sentenced to incineration, crumbling within. I sensed more than heard the door close, and his voice was only a couple of feet behind me, "You would be surprised how many of my enemies do announce themselves, whether they mean to or not, men of a negative disposition are always arrogant, and arrogant men love to hear themselves talk. Many a plausible victory has been foiled due to a self-indulgent monologue, giving the hero a chance to overcome the odds."

I don't know if it was simply my lack of sleep but I suddenly felt bold. I decided to tease him. "Bad men aren't the only arrogant ones." I made sure to smile as I said it, as I was always afraid to hurt anyone's feelings, even if the one person I felt I could tease seemed impermeable to anything I could possibly say. He raised an eyebrow, the only show of emotion on his face. I stifled a laugh as I turned and moved toward the fire to warm my hands. My hands shook slightly, and I hoped to God he thought it was from the cold.

I turned back to him, "Are you the hero?" He stood with his hands behind his back, and I noticed his bow protruding from behind him. "Hardly. A hero, as I see the term in relation to Greek and Roman myth, relates to a strapping youth, blessed by the gods with immense strength, bravery, magic weapons, and he usually has a guide, who provides him with every available lead. He hardly has to think for himself, and in the end he receives prizes in the form of kingships or women or wealth. His quest ends cleanly and the people shower him with gifts and drink and few of these 'heroes', if any, deserve the recognition bestowed upon them. Their fame is a result of chance and circumstance. Greek myth, as I am sure you are aware, rarely involves logic, the only real trait a man need possess to accomplish great feats."

I blinked as he finished his speech and digested what he said. He always spoke so quickly. Often I had to pause momentarily to absorb his words, so what might seem a speech for another man simply sounded as necessary and succinct coming from his lips. _His lips – _by this time he had circled me once and was again facing me, his back to the door. It never ceased to amaze me how a man who was so sardonic, rarely genuinely smiled. But, he still appeared to communicate his amusement through his eyes. He could smile just with his eyes and every other muscle in his face would be still as stone, as he did now.

He was taking a risk assuming I knew anything about Greek myth; a simple girl from a small town in Texas with no formal education had no reason to ever come across such tales. But, I corrected myself, I was anything but simple, even I knew that, and could admit it without arrogance. It made me smile that somehow he knew this, and guessed I would be familiar with Greek and Roman history. I decided I would attempt to pry an indirect compliment from him. "How would I be familiar with Greek myth? I've no formal education."

At this he began to pace around the room, I could sense the self-satisfied aura he projected before launching into a discussion of his methods. Sure enough he said, "You are obviously well read, which means you were self taught or, someone close to you, probably a family member, aided in your education and intellectual pursuits. The classics would have been a likely choice in literature…" I broke in here, and I couldn't help but smile as I said, "You're line of thought is logical, but you are missing a knowledge of rural American culture and custom. You are close, but you haven't hit the nail on the head yet."

"Perhaps I could if I wasn't rudely interrupted."

"I hardly think I interrupted you, you did pause." He turned toward me, certainly to object, but I took the rare opportunity to make a deduction of my own. "I can see how you would refer to Greek heroes either to impress or educate me, but you said you were sure I was aware, and I find it interesting that you would make such an assumption. There was no need to."

Here he squared his shoulders, and seemed to decide to skip his lecture in favor of cutting right to the quick, "I am sure you are aware of Greek myth because I happen to know you possess a book on the matter." At this I gasped, "How on earth could you know? You've never been in my room…" but I suddenly realized my mistake. Of course he had been in my room, the twit.

"I cannot believe you snuck into my room without my permission, and to what purpose?"

"Purely scientific inquiry, I assure you. Your manner of speech and topics of conversation are not the vapid airs of condescension purported by most women. Knowing the elements of your background you have freely spoken of, I wanted to know how you came to possess these elements of education, as your habits deviate from the stereotypical manners of a woman raised in the country. You are a lady, one prone to curiosity and inquisitiveness, unusual traits to be sure. All of that and…"

"You were bored," I finished for him.

"I would not put it so vulgarly, I genuinely wanted to see if you would be of use as an addition to the household."

My indignation at his intrusion into my privacy switched to feeling insulted. "Of use?," I inquired, with slightly more bite than I intended, then it dawned on me. "Ah, I see, you had just lost Watson as a partner, he was no longer at your beck and call, so you wanted to see if I would be of use to you. You got used to having someone to discuss your cases with." He narrowed his gaze at me. "Am I close to guessing your aim?"

He shifted his gaze to what looked like a pile of clothing and books in the corner but as he sat down before it, I noticed it to be a camouflaged piano. He began playing Fur Elise and I instantly calmed, my eyelids began to flutter with exhaustion from the hypnotic lullaby. After a few seconds of playing I decided to give up my mission of fishing a compliment from him. He had only indicated he thought me intelligent after I found out he snuck into my room because he wanted to know if I would be useful. Hmph. Men.

"Any new cases?" I knew I struck a nerve because his shoulders stiffened. He must be tired, I thought, he is usually so inscrutable. It was then that he stopped playing but still faced away from me as he said, "I have a job for you."

From the author: Any thoughts? I have a plan of what I'm thinking but would love any input. More to come.


	5. Chapter 5, Kidnapping of Princess Cat

The Kidnapping of Princess Catherine

A beat of silence. The rain dripped a steady cacophony against the windowpanes. "A job?" I asked, laughing in disbelief, "You must be joking." I rolled my eyes at him.

His rough voice answered, "I assure you madam, I never _joke."_ He said this gravely without the least bit of irony and I could not help but smile.

"Forgive me. How dare I insinuate such falsehoods?" Even I could hear the smile in my voice.

"You are forgiven… this time." He waggled his eyebrows at me. I willed my heart to slow it's hammering rhythm in my chest.

I smirked and said, "Since you always speak the utmost truth, to what job do you refer?"

He played a few more chords on the piano, and then leapt off the stool, launching himself at the violin lying next to the fireplace. He grabbed the violin and rolled sideways, picking the bow off the floor from where he had dropped it and stood up, all in one easy, fluid motion. He moved quick as lightening. I stared in shock as he slowly teased a few notes from the aged instrument.

After he had made one circuit around the room, he turned toward a teetering pile of mail on his desk. Taking a letter from the middle of the stack, I watched as the others toppled to the floor, the sound of paper softly scraping against the carpet mingled with the crackle of dying embers and the trickle of the now relenting downpour. He held out the envelope and I took the pro-offered mystery. Breaking the seal, I steeled myself for whatever mischief he had in mind for me. Even though the music did not stop, I could feel his gaze on me as I read:

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I am afraid I must request your services in a catastrophic incident. A terrible disaster has befallen my family. My precious Princess Catherine has been kidnapped! Please lend your brilliant mind to solving this heinous crime and securing the safe return of my beloved Katy Cat. Your reward will be substantial._

_I anxiously await your reply,_

_Mrs. Jonathan Weatherby_

"Well then," said I, "a dastardly villain is on the loose. Alert Scotland Yard." He must be expecting some kind of reaction. I will not rise to the occasion.

The violin music stopped. I recognized it as some piece by Mozart. "Will that be your first plan of action? I really expected more of a, shall we say, 'hands on' approach."

"This is your job for me? You are teasing me, I know it. You probably wrote this yourself."

"I assure you madam; again, I never joke about cases. This calls for your utmost attention. Should you manage to solve it and recover the aforementioned feline; a promotion will be in order."

"You do not have that authority," I said, though I honestly was not entirely sure he did not, "Mrs. Hudson procured my position for the sake of my Uncle, and I doubt she would be amused at your idea of a 'promotion'. A promotion to what position exactly?"

"If you succeed at solving this case, you would prove yourself worthy of a position as my assistant." This notion triggered an interest on my part. An assistant to _the_ Sherlock Holmes? Why, William would be pea green with envy. I pictured his handsome face, dumbstruck with surprise when he read my letter. Did I imagine I was going to succeed? You can bet your boots I did. Catherine Elizabeth Keaton did not back down from a challenge.

How was I going to succeed? Now that was another matter entirely.

Glancing across the room in deep thought, I noticed movement and caught my reflection in a dirty mirror hanging on the red wall. The woman before me looked absolutely exhausted. Dark circles highlighted her pale skin. She appeared ghostly, a porcelain vision in lace and ribbon. A slight, permanent frown graced her Cupid's bow lips. The woman in the mirror seemed haunted. Sad and tired, but behind her eyes there lay a steadfastness that was dormant until challenged. At that moment, she jutted her chin out and tilted her head up in defiance of her own reflection. Hazel eyes burned gold in the firelight. She was not a woman to be trifled with, and Sherlock Holmes would soon see how badly he had misjudged his own ego.

"Cease your gawking at yourself and turn your attention to the matter at hand madam. You have yet to announce your decision. What would you care to do about _this_ - " he pointed at the letter in my hand with his bow.

"It is rude to point at a lady."

"It is equally rude to ignore someone when they are asking you a question."

I did in fact; ignore his question, by asking one of my own. "How ever did you know I would be able to take this case? How did you know it wasn't a triple homicide or a complaint about a nude clown running amok in the park or something else equally indecent for a woman to investigate alone?"

"I would never send a young single woman alone on the case of the less savory sort on her first official outing, such as that of a runaway nude clown. That would have to wait until your second case."

"I will humor you by answering your question," he continued, "and then you will answer mine." He took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of his method.

"The handwriting on the outside indicates a matronly lady of status and wealth," he began, "women of that ilk hardly ever have anything of interest to say, and they most certainly avoid calling attention to their faults. I could tell without opening the letter she probably lost a glove or something equally insipid and is either convinced her maid stole it or simply wants the attentions of a dashing detective because her husband ignores her. A request to investigate a kidnapped cat is beneath my powers of perception, especially since…. I have more pressing matters to attend to."

"That was not what you were going to say…" I paused in thought, "Oh my…you've already solved it haven't you? You want to see if I can. Am I correct?" I was granted a small smirk for my deduction.

Before he could say anything else, I surprised myself by saying "I'll take it."

He dropped his bow, and began to pluck a few notes on the violin with his calloused fingers. "Then it looks like you have work to do tomorrow." He strummed his song, seemingly ignoring my presence.

"Yes, I suppose so. I wager I should begin first thing in the morning."

"That is only after you've served my breakfast and fetched the paper." He still had not lifted his head to look at me. The notes flowed from his fingers into the empty chilled air.

"Of course. Nothing would give me greater pleasure." I gave him my sweetest smile.

As I turned to go back to my room, I caught a fleeting smile on his face, but as I twisted back to look at him, the smile disappeared as quickly as it came.

"Oh, and Miss Keaton,"

"Yes Mr. Holmes?" I placed my hands on my hips.

"Do not call me 'Mr.' just Holmes will suffice."

"Dually noted."

"And Miss Keaton…"

"Yes Holmes?"

"Do try and get some rest. You would hate to frighten the poor woman who has already suffered such a severe trauma when you visit her tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

"And do not call me sir. It makes me sound pompous. You should only call Watson Sir. He is pompous enough for the both of us."

"Yes, _Holmes."_

"By the way, I find Chamomile tea helps."

"Helps with what, pre tell?"

"Insomnia." He knew. However, I suppose it was obvious. I did resemble some sort of ghoul at the moment. My sleep patterns had been irregular for some time. The doctors said it was a result of something called 'melancholia'. Whatever it was called, it made life exceedingly difficult.

"Does it work for you?" I asked in reference to the Chamomile tea. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Hudson if she had any in the morning.

"I am a very peculiar case." Of course he was only referring to the inability to sleep.

"Truer words were never spoken." I retorted as I turned to leave, and he ushered me through the door.

"Oh and Miss Keaton, one more thing."

"Yes?"

"No more lurking outside my door. I might mistake you for an intruder, box your pretty ears, and then where would we be?" And with that, he shut the door in my face. I found myself back in the hallway, quite frazzled and irritated to boot.

Did he just call me pretty? _Why should you care? You know he didn't mean it._

There was no reason to alert my Great Uncle Ian as to what I was up to. As long as Mrs. Hudson did not suspect something nefarious, she had no reason to tell on me. I could not wait to write to William. I returned to my room, anxious about the next day, yet euphoric that Holmes wanted more to do with me. Instead of sleeping, I sat up and wrote to William and my Uncle Ian, except the letter to my Uncle conveniently overlooked Holmes' proposal.

Next: Mrs. Weatherby pleads for help.

Author's Note: Well, what do you think? I tried to strike a balance between description and dialogue. Please tell me what you like or don't like and why. I hope to have the next chapter up within the week. Upcoming chapters will include references to Catherine's family and how she came to be in London.

Reviews are more than encouraged. If something bothers you, please let me know how I can improve for the next chapter.

-Herstorian


	6. Chapter 6, The Investigation Begins

The Investigation Begins

"_Nothing contributes so much to tranquilizing the mind as a steady purpose – a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye_." –Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly

My eyes opened to the sound of Mrs. Hudson knocking on my door. "Are you up dear? It's time to serve Mr. Holmes breakfast." I responded with a grunt she took in the affirmative as I sat up in bed. My head ached with exhaustion. The insomnia coupled with my excitement at Holmes' offer of my own investigation allowed me only a few hours of sleep. My limbs moved sluggishly to lift my person up and out of bed. I stumbled toward the desk chair and wrapped my robe and then a shawl around my shoulders. The chilly air felt damp after the intense rain from last night. September in London definitely differed from the same month in Texas by twenty to thirty degrees.

As I splashed my face with water from the basin, not even the scent of my homemade mint soap served to keep the familiar tiredness from settling into my bones. At twenty-five years old, I was fortunate that I only appeared about eighteen, maybe twenty. That did not change the fact I was on my way to becoming an old maid, but it kept people from giving me piteous looks, at least at present. Since I had entered my teen years and first experienced my severe change in mood, the second half of my short life was filled with mental anguish and emotional instability.

I had resigned myself to the idea, which day by day, seemed to be growing into a fact; that I would never marry. I think my mother took the disappointment to heart more than I did. Even if my personality had not changed so dramatically, I doubted the possibility of marriage. The idea of dedicating my life to some man who could never understand what I was going through seemed abhorrent. And yes, I assumed no one could understand what I was going through because no one really did. No one except William.

And William, well, he was a special man. William had become my best friend and I had even thought I was in love with him for quite some time. Mother was certain he and I would marry, but gave up that hope once I explained to her, rather delicately, that he was not the 'marrying kind.' He had never put it into words, even after all these years, but I could still sense the reason he did not wish to marry without ever discussing it with him. William had said I was exceedingly perceptive, and he was right, never knowing how I had pieced together the secrets of his preferences and forced my aching heart to view them honestly. I would always love him, but the love I once imagined as romantic had grown into a deep and sincere friendship.

I gazed at my pale reflection in the vanity as I brushed and braided my wavy brown hair. It was so thick it took some time to arrange properly. I settled for one large braid coiled and tied up with two smaller ones. After adding what felt like dozens of hairpins, I turned toward my wardrobe and picked out a dress decent enough for traveling to visit Mrs. Weatherby later that morning. As I stumbled slightly descending the stairs toward the basement kitchen, I crossed paths with Maggie as she came down from the third floor.

"Why, Good Morning Miss Catherine," she greeted me looking crisp in her maid's uniform.

"Good Morning Maggie, have you visited Mr. Holmes yet this morning?" I teased her. I knew the answer to that question.

"Why, you know you are the only one who really has much to do with him nowadays. Ever since Mrs. 'udson told me he once 'ad her worm a goat, I've made up my mind never to step foot in that man's room again if I can 'elp it." Her soft cockney accent always sounded pleasant. She instantly brightened my gloomy day.

Her elaborate updo of red hair sat perched underneath her maid's cap. I was always so envious of her talent with ornate coiffures. I told her as much, and she said, "Why Miss Catherine, all you 'af to do is ask and I would've 'elped you with your 'air."

"Maybe you could teach me a few skillful tricks some other time. Right now, I need to serve the gentleman his breakfast."

"That is," she added, "if 'e eats it. I swear, I've never really seen him eat anyfing substantial. Just tea and biscuits. It's a small wonder 'e's still alive."

"That man's eccentricities will never cease to amaze me," I commented as we entered the kitchen.

"Good Morning Mrs. Hudson," I nodded at her and the cook, "Mrs. Gosling. Is breakfast ready for Mr. Holmes?"

Mrs. Gosling handed me a tray of ham and eggs with toast. "Good luck dearie," were her parting words to me as I ascended back up the stairs to Holmes' lair.

"Give Mrs. Weatherby my regards." was the only advice he offered.

I rang the bell to Mrs. Jonathan Weatherby's residence at approximately 11:00 am. A tall, thin, balding man with the largest mustache I had ever seen (even larger than my father's) answered the door asking rather boredly, "How can I help you?" He adjusted his monocle then stroked his mustache in one practiced movement. He reminded me of a picture book I had as a little girl of a large walrus who had escaped from the zoo.

"My name is Catherine Keaton. I am an associate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We received a letter from Mrs. Weatherby asking for his assistance. Is she available?"

"And where might the great detective be?" He looked at me suspiciously, but I decided I could catch more flies with honey.

"He is currently very busy with his caseload, but has asked that I meet with Mrs. Weatherby to get more information about her request before he commits himself." Then I added, a little louder, "I'm sure Mrs. Weatherby doesn't have a moment to spare. Is she able to take visitors? I am only here to help her. She did ask for our assistance."

Just then, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and harried blue eyes appeared behind the mustached man. "Charles," she chided sternly, "let this young woman in immediately." The bite was still felt without the need for raising her voice.

"You must excuse me Miss Keaton, I have been in a terrible humor the past two days. I really am beside myself. Please come in." The woman I presumed to be Mrs. Weatherby swished out of sight, and Charles, who I presumed to be the butler, let me in with a slight frown and a nod.

After the initial ritual pleasantries, Mrs. Weatherby led me to an old-fashioned, yet well furnished parlor. I surveyed the room, and noticed right away something odd. Along the wall opposite the door hung a painting, but no ordinary family portrait or picture of still life. The painting on the wall was of a large, white, long-haired cat with emerald green eyes. As Mrs. Weatherby led me into the parlor and invited me to have a seat, I turned to my left and was struck by an even larger painting. This time, the picture depicted Mrs. Weatherby holding her precious cat in her lap. The cat's eyes seemed to eerily follow me around the room and I wondered if this was some cruel joke on the part of the artist.

Mrs. Weatherby practically dropped into her own chair and her out-of-fashion bustle gave a creak beneath her olive green house dress. I was preparing to navigate the situation when Mrs. Weatherby burst into dainty sobs and produced a handkerchief she proceeded to bury her face in.

She attempted to collect herself as she said, "Miss Keaton, you must know already, a great tragedy has befallen me. I withheld the details in the letter for fear of compromising my husband's name, but now I must tell you the whole terrible tale." She began sobbing again, and I tried to console her as I said, "Please Mrs. Weatherby, tell me what has happened and I will try to be of as much help as I can."

She took a deep breath to calm herself, dabbed at her nose, and explained, "It happened the day before yesterday at around tea time. I noticed that Princess Catherine, my precious prizewinning Persian, was nowhere to be found. I asked all the servants and searched the entire house, but found no sign of her. At around 7 o'clock in the evening, one of the servants noticed a note tacked to the back door." At this she started, and rose from her seat. She walked over to an antique box, and pulled a folded paper from within. She held it out to me and as I took it from her trembling hand, I read:

_Mrs. Weatherby,_

_We have your cat. If you ever wish to see her again, please leave 50 pounds in a paper bag in your back garden by midnight tomorrow._

My mind was already reeling from the note, but I refocused back to Mrs. Weatherby. "After we received the note, I knew I could not notify Scotland Yard. I was terrified of what they might do to my poor Princess Catherine if I reported her kidnapping to the police, so I asked my husband to leave the money in the garden. I waited up all night, but…b-but we never saw anyone."

She began a fresh wave of sobs. I felt lost. A kidnapped cat. What was the world coming to? _Think of what Holmes would do._

"Mrs. Weatherby", I began softly, as I rested my hand on her lower arm, "what business is your husband in? What does he do for a living?"

"He's in shipping. His company ships all over the empire." _Think Catherine, think. What needs to be done?_

I took out a small notebook from my reticule for this specific purpose, and began writing down the facts in an attempt to sift through my thoughts.

"May I interview the other members of the household? Your husband or servants? Anyone who was home at the time of the…incident?"

Suddenly, I knew exactly what I had to do. Princess Catherine would soon be safe with Catherine Keaton on the case. I could not let my namesake down.


	7. Chapter 7, The Problem with Peas

_The next morning (Friday)_

I danced on the balls of my feet as Mrs. Gosling prepared breakfast. My apron twisted in my hands and I hardly heard Maggie as she went on about some boy from the market. Small beads of sweat appeared on my brow and excitement bubbled in my stomach. After what felt like hours, Mrs. Gosling handed me the tray of food to take up to Holmes. Alrighty then, it's time to begin.

I marched upstairs and only tripped twice. The second time, the tea nearly suffered a casualty, but I managed a near miss as I lurched forward and caught myself at the top of the stairs on my elbows. I scrambled up, and knocked on the door with the toe of my boot (as Mrs. Hudson had instructed me not to do). A bored "Enter," was heard from within, and I obliged.

I must remain inscrutable. He's expecting me to come begging him for help. Total nonchalance is critical to the outcome of this conversation.

Holmes was bent over his desk with his back to me. "And what's cook prepared this morning?" He still had not turned around, but I heard him tinkering with some contraption or other.

"Your favorite. Scrambled eggs. And I will stay here until you eat every bite." As I set the tray down, he turned towards me and something flashed across the room like a bullet, bouncing off the walls and finally imbedding itself in an armchair. A flurry of feathers announced its landing. What on earth…?

"I am testing the traveling velocity of foods frozen in liquid nitrogen. This," and he picked out the projectile from the chair with a pair of long tongs, "is a pea."

I finally noticed his face and saw he was wearing goggles that magnified his eyes to twice their normal size. He looked the perfect mad scientist standing holding a specimen in his apron with a smoking beaker of strange liquid behind him. Sunlight filtered into the dark room and dust motes danced in the air. The light glinted off his glass goggles and I realized I was standing with my mouth open. I shut it with a snap and struggled to gather my thoughts after such an unsolicited attack on my person. I had just been nearly struck by a flying vegetable while serving breakfast to a world famous detective.

He is trying to distract me. Well, he won't succeed, even if he is throwing food at me.

"Well, since you are determined to assault me with peas, I suppose you do not want to hear about how my case is going."

"Oh no, on the contrary," he hopped over to where I stood and growled, "enlighten me." I struggled to keep a straight face looking him in the eye so I settled on pacing about the room, just as I had seen him do on so many similar occasions. I folded my hands behind my back and strode over to peek out the window, as though something had caught my eye. Carriages passed on the street below, splashing through the mud. The sound of horse hooves and wheels on cobblestone clattered in the background.

"I visited Mrs. Weatherby yesterday, and she was most obliging. She took me through the events of the day and even gave me a miniature portrait of Princess Catherine to help me locate her." I pulled the tiny painting out of my pocket and showed it to him. He took a look at the kidnapping victim and noted, "She does have the look of royalty about her."

I ignored him as I re-pocketed the portrait and resumed my pacing. "Mr. Weatherby, on the other hand, seemed overeager for me to leave. When I interviewed him, he kept insisting what a ridiculous request it was to find a stolen cat and that I really shouldn't bother Mr. Holmes with such nonsense when he has so much more important matters to attend to. Mr. Weatherby," and at this I nodded back at Holmes," is obviously unaware of how you spend your spare time." He seemed to be listening as he twirled the tongs in the air, standing with his weight on one foot.

Mr. Weatherby's beard had been red once, now it was nearly all grey. I pictured him sitting across from me, constantly yet deftly checking his pocket watch. His grey eyes seemed to hide something. The butler, Charles, had stood at attention the entire time I asked questions, either unwilling or not permitted to leave his master. I guessed the former.

"Miss Keaton, I am sure you are aware what a lost cause this is," he shook his head gravely,"I am sorry my wife has troubled you. She is grief-stricken and only wishes to have her darling pet back. But, alas, I do not see what more can be done."

"Please Mr. Weatherby, allow me to look into this case. Mr. Holmes is an excellent detective. I am sure he can get to the bottom of these strange events." I placated him, using Holmes' name to elicit some degree of confidence. I sat across the coffee table from him, using my tea cup to anchor my unsteady hands. Visiting strangers always made me nervous.

He seemed not to hear me, and instead took out a very expensive looking fountain pen and began writing a message on specially monogrammed paper. He finished his note, and folded it, getting up to open the writing desk and take out a stamp, sealing the letter. He passed the letter to Charles, who walked over to hand it to me.

"I am afraid there is no case to solve Miss Keaton," he continued as if I had not spoken, "please do give Mr. Holmes my regards. I have enclosed a note of thanks for his trouble." I was dismissed.

I described the events to Holmes, finishing "He would not even allow me to say goodbye to Mrs. Weatherby."

Holmes responded, "Interesting. What is the timeline of these events? Go over it." He pointed his finger in the air.

I stared into empty space, focusing my concentration inward. "We received the letter Wednesday asking for help. Mrs. Weatherby said the cat went missing on Tuesday afternoon, and the butler found the note on the door at around 7 o'clock. The ransom note stated that the cat had been kidnapped, and to leave 50 pounds in the garden the following night. No other visitors had been in the house that day. Mrs. Weatherby sent us her plea Wednesday, before the time the money was to be left for the kidnappers for fear that something horrible would happen to Princess Catherine. She then left the money out Wednesday night, and waited up all night but never saw anyone approach the house. Thursday morning at 11 o'clock I arrived to investigate the case. I interviewed Mrs. Weatherby, her servant Sarah, the butler Charles, and Mr. Weatherby, all of whom contested to not seeing the cat after lunch time on Tuesday."

By this time, Holmes had remembered I had brought him breakfast, and had sat down at his desk to eat. He picked up his napkin with a flourish and tucked it into his collar. He sat munching on toast and eggs as I contemplated the best way to go about ascertaining advice from him in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. My hand strayed to my pocket subconsciously, betraying my next move.

"So, where's the letter?"

"What letter?" I played dumb. The chances of him actually foregoing the opportunity to poke fun at me were dwindling by the second.

"The one the old chap gave you to give as an apology to the 'excellent detective'."

"He never called you an 'excellent detective'." I raised my brow, foolishly thinking I had won.

"No, those were your words, as I recall."

I glowered at him. He was right. I _hated_ when he was right. Incidentally, that happened much more often than I would care to admit. I pulled the letter from my pocket and handed it to him just as he snatched it from my fingers.

He raised his eyebrows at me, "Trouble with the delivery?" He nodded toward the aforementioned letter in his palm, the seal already broken.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." I walked off, away from his scrutinizing gaze. "I happen to know that the letter contains exactly what Mr. Weatherby said it did; an apology, to you, for wasting _your_ time. Never mind that I was the one doing the investigating and taking time out of _my_ busy schedule of cleaning up after you to look into the kidnapping."

"I resent that. Watson never complained about cleaning up after me." He jutted his chin out and crossed his arms. "And at any rate, you are missing the most important clue."

"And what would that be?" My heart leapt into my throat. I could not even pretend to hide my interest.

"If I told you," he continued, "then your investigative career would be cut short and you would spend the remainder of your time in London only picking up after the great Sherlock Holmes instead of working with him."

I bristled. This was not the help I was hoping for. He held the letter out to me between his thumb and forefinger, as I went to grab it he jerked it upward, out of reach. I took a deep breath, reached for the paper again, and proceeded to wrench it from his grip. He stared up at me innocently, his dark brown eyes wide as a doe's eyes. I snorted derisively, as a lady should never do, and looked over the letter for the tenth time. Holmes began scraping his plate with toast.

"It's right under your nose," he conceded. I sighed in frustration, trying to control my temper. I was more frustrated with myself than with him. Why couldn't I solve this if it was so obvious?

_Think Catherine_. What do I know? What do I _feel?_

My instinct told me Mr. Weatherby was to blame for Princess Catherine's disappearance, but how to prove it? Why would he steal his wife's cat? What was the motive?

"Are you quite finished?" I asked, exasperated by the entire situation

. By this time he was licking his fingers. I prepared myself for watching him lick his plate, but was spared such a scene by Maggie bringing in today's post.

"You've got mail" I announced without ceremony, and dutifully brought him the letters. I knew his manners horrified the other women of the household but they did not bother me at all. I had two brothers and a father that were hardly better equipped than cave dwellers with silverware despite my mother's protestations. You could say I was immune to less than proper table manners. It was belching and blowing noses at the table that got to me. I still winced when my grandmother or father did either. Fortunately, Holmes was not inclined to those less favorable traits.

He tossed all but one of the letters in the floor, tore open the one that interested him, and began reading. My mind was still reeling from his commentary.

After a few moments of silence he announced, "Well well well, it appears I have more important matters to attend to."

"Like licking your plate clean?" I teased him.

"Precisely," he said without missing a beat. "Away with you!" And he waved me out of the room without so much as a 'thank you'.

"B-but, wait just a-" I managed to stutter as he ushered me out the door, "-minute." I finished my pitiful sentence on the landing, his door shut in my face. I was terribly confused, but, maybe all I needed was some time to think things over.

I marched toward my room with more confidence than I felt. Walking over to my desk, I placed Mr. Weatherby's letter next to the ransom note Mrs. Weatherby had given me the previous evening. "This will probably be of more use to you," she had stated before bursting into a fresh wave of tears, "I have no need for it now." I really did feel sorry for the poor woman. Her husband did not even want to help her. No wonder he seemed so suspicious.

Just then, I took a look at both pieces of paper side by side. Something struck me about the writing. It took a moment before I realized, both the letters had the same handwriting, _only opposite._ As if one had been written with the right hand, and the ransom note, with the left; but both written by a right-handed person.

Excitement seized me as I realized what Holmes had said. The answer had been _literally_ under my nose when I was reading the letter.

Mr. Weatherby must have been responsible for the cat's disappearance, but was afraid of telling his wife.

But why go through all of this trouble? Was he that afraid of her? He had gone to great lengths to hide his involvement, but to what end?

I needed to confront Mr. Weatherby. This would take some gumption, but I knew that my partnership (assistant-ship) with Holmes was hinging on the outcome of this investigation. My head buzzed with the new information. I sat at my vanity to put on my hat and smiled at my reflection. Maybe I would be handy at this detective work after all.

Author's note: So what do you think? Review please!


	8. Chapter 8, A Fishy Situation

A Fishy Situation

The carriage hit a rather large pothole and I was tossed briefly into the air, my backside breaking contact with the cushion. I did not remember the carriage ride being this jolting the first time. It was probably just my nerves. The ride back to the Weatherby house filled me with excitement and anxiety. I twisted my gloves in anticipation when I was not trying to place stray strands of hair back into my bun with twitchy fingers. Part of me hoped Mr. Weatherby would not be home so I could avoid this entire confrontation.

I was brought back to my senses with a jerk, my body bobbing with the swaying carriage. At least when on a horse I could gauge the pace and balance myself accordingly. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. How was I to go about this? What would be the best strategy? What would Holmes do?

I needed to convince Mr. Weatherby that I was not there to threaten or interrogate him. He had to believe I was on his side. I simply wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened to Princess Catherine, nothing more. If it had been an accident, then I could put the case to rest.

The carriage arrived sooner than I had anticipated, and I tumbled out as I planned my next move. After paying the coachman, I turned with trepidation to the front door of the Weatherby house. A breeze blew the smell of fish under my nose, making me pause. I had not noticed the smell yesterday. Maybe it was only when the wind blew in a certain direction.

I rang the doorbell, and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the butler Charles opened the door and looked at me with disappointment etched in every inch of his bushy face.

"Miss Keaton," he said with chagrin, "we were not expecting to see you again… so soon." His body blocked the door, seemingly to keep me from barging in.

"Yes Sir, I am sorry but could I speak with Mr. Weatherby, is he in?"

"He is unavailable."

"Will he be available any time soon? I assure you, it will only take a moment I …" and at this, I lowered my voice, "I think I know what happened with Princess Catherine, and I have no plans to discuss it with Mrs. Weatherby. That is unless; Mr. Weatherby is unable to speak with me." I tilted my head to the side, indicating my understanding of the situation.

Charles hesitated, and then said, "Wait one moment." He closed the door, and I lingered impatiently.

The butler reappeared at the door, this time to allow me in with a discrete wave. I entered, and Charles led me down the hallway into Mr. Weatherby's study. The room was paneled with book cases on three walls, the fourth wall held two windows that opened onto the garden. Mr. Weatherby rose when I entered, then gestured for me to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. I had the feeling not even Mrs. Weatherby entered this room often.

"Miss Keaton, Charles tells me you have news about my wife's cat." He sounded reserved, but he had an aura of exasperation about him. I had to make this brief.

"Yes Sir. I simply wanted to ask you a question; I know that you were involved with the disappearance of Princess Catherine. What happened to her three days ago?" I said this with as much respect as I could muster, and with no trace of arrogance.

The older man sighed, then seemed resolved to his fate as he said, "It was a complete accident. I never meant for any harm to come to her. My wife absolutely loved that cat. We never had any children, you see."

"Please Mr. Weatherby, tell me what happened, and I will do everything I can to help you." I meant what I said with absolute sincerity.

"I doubt very much there is anything you can do to help. Still, I will tell you what happened. Pardon me a moment." I nodded, and he rose to procure a glass of what I presumed to be brandy from a cupboard behind his desk. He turned to me, "Do you mind if I…?" and he gestured to a cigar he had pulled from a drawer.

"Not at all."

He nodded, and lit the cigar with a match. Taking a few puffs, he began, "These are my usual cigars. I tried a different type the other day, Tuesday to be exact, but they produced an unusual amount of smoke. My wife has allergies, so I only smoke in my office." He took another puff, and I noticed my nose begin to twitch. I sniffed, and tried to stifle a cough. These cigars seemed to affect me a great deal more than Holmes' pipe tobacco.

"The smoke was so bad in fact, that I opened a window to aid in air circulation. Charles was tidying up in here when the cat slithered in between his legs. Neither of us noticed her until she was up on the windowsill. She had never been outside; my wife was adamant about her never going outside. Both Charles and I leapt after her at the same time, but in a moment, she was out the window and into the garden.

"The two of us rushed into the garden, and began looking for the cat. We found her up on the second story windowsill. How she even reached it I cannot imagine. I told Charles to fetch the ladder from the carriage house and we used it to try and reach her. Thank heavens my wife was still at luncheon with Mrs. Croft. We would never been able to explain ourselves." He began to pace behind his desk, sipping his brandy in one hand, holding his smoking cigar in the other.

"By the time we raised the ladder, the cat had made it up to the third story roof. Charles climbed up to try and grab her, but by then she had disappeared. I could not believe our luck. I knew my wife would be devastated, as well as furious at us both. I was at a complete loss at what to do."

He sighed, obviously troubled, "I panicked. Charles and I came up with the idea of a kidnapping. The cat was quite valuable you see. She was a prize-winning purebred. It was not unthinkable that she could be stolen. I did not think my wife would believe it if she had simply disappeared, so we thought of writing a ransom note. I used my left hand to disguise my handwriting." He nodded at Charles, still standing at attention near the door, always at the ready. I could imagine the two men coming together, bent over Mr. Weatherby's desk, terrified of telling Mrs. Weatherby what had happened.

"And now you've painted yourselves into a corner, so to speak."

"I am afraid so. Do you have any suggestions as to our next plan of action?"

"Well," I began, "I can only think of one thing." I paused, not wanting to say what was to come next. "We must find the cat."

"How do you propose we do that Miss Keaton, she has been gone for three days! Even if a miracle happened and she was still alive, how on earth would we find her?" He sounded slightly perturbed.

"I have a plan."

"Does it involve going door to door asking for a large white cat?" Trust Charles to be condescending at a time like this. I was only trying to help them.

"It involves gathering data. Is your wife home Mr. Weatherby?"

"No, I convinced her to visit Mrs. Croft to get her mind off the entire situation."

"Excellent. Then you are still in the clear. I'm going to need you to take me through the events of Tuesday afternoon. From lunch until the time you left the ransom note on the door. Do not leave anything out. And," I added, "if you would be so kind as to give me a sample of the cat's hair, perhaps from a brush or her favorite pillow."

Mr. Weatherby looked surprised at my forthrightness, then, as though he had been buoyed by renewed hope, he faintly smiled. "You heard her Charles, let's get to work."

The gentlemen took me through the strange series of events and only Charles looked at me as if I had offended him by asking for a ladder to climb up to the roof. I knew any tracks would have been washed away by Wednesday night's rain, but I still wanted to take a look around. Once on the roof, I studied the surrounding terrain. There was a long garden wall that stretched behind the row of houses all the way to the end of the block. In the distance sat a squat warehouse just at the edge of the Thames River, the largest building within a few blocks. As I stood on the roof the smell of fish swept over me again, and I suddenly realized the building must be an indoor fish market. It seemed strange at first that a fish market would be so close to the Weatherby's wealthy residence, but then in London, many different areas seemed to be oddly thrown together. New houses and ancient taverns sat right next to each other. After all, there was a tannery next door to 221 B Baker Street.

A thought struck me, but it was a long shot. Once I descended from the roof, we returned to the study. I asked Mr. Weatherby, "Do you happen to know what Princess Catherine's favorite food was?"

"I believe it was some sort of fish. Yes, I'm sure of it. I can ask the maid about the specific type."

"That won't be necessary. Mr. Weatherby, I believe I know where your cat may be, if she is still alive."

"Good heavens, are you certain? If you were able to get her back I would be eternally grateful."

"I will do everything in my power to return her to you, if at all possible."

"Thank you Miss Keaton. You will of course be compensated. All the more so if you return with the cat in tow. Here," and he handed me a five pound note. I could not believe my eyes. "This is for your trouble thus far. I will give you twice that if you are able to find the cat and bring her home to my wife."

The demure, self-effacing young woman in me wanted to immediately refuse him. But then I remembered this was a business transaction. Holmes was paid for his services, why shouldn't I be as well?

"Thank you very much sir. Whether I find Princess Catherine or not, you will know by tomorrow. If I am unfortunately unable to find her, I will notify you by post. Mrs. Weatherby does not open your mail does she?"

"Certainly not."

"Good, then either way, your secret will be safe with me."

From the author: REVIEW PLEASE! I hope to get the next chapter up sooner than within the week and reviews would sure help with that. I only need 3 more to get to an even 10. I already have the next chapter all planned out, now I just need to put it down on paper. Any suggestions on things to come?


	9. Chapter 9, Cat-astrophe

Cat-astrophe

The heels of my boots clicked across cobblestone early on Saturday morning. Rosy pink dawn peeked over the top of the warehouse. Tendrils of cloud alluded to the rain from the last few days. A few servants hurried about their business, running morning errands for their employers. My eyes scanned the horizon as the sounds of many men at work reached my ears. A clattering of metal and a mixture of various voices with accompanying accents rang through the streets.

As I came around the corner, the warehouse filled my vision and the smell of men and fish filled my nose. I patted my pocket, feeling the small painting of Princess Catherine knock against my thigh. I had to steady my nerves. If I wasn't careful I might pass out and that was all I needed. My stomach grumbled; I had been too anxious to eat any breakfast. My empty stomach coupled with the fish smell made me feel nauseated.

All right, it was now or never. I stepped toward the warehouse, and my anxiety almost made my knees buckle. I forced myself to move forward, but instead of walking toward the open doorway, I went down the alley behind the building. I paused to steady myself and a small movement caught my eye. It was hard to see in the half-light of dawn, but there was a hole in the siding of the warehouse. The hole was jagged, and a tuft of hair was stuck on one of the sharp edges, blowing in the breeze. I plucked the hair from the opening, and pulled a small wrapper from my reticule. Upon comparing the hair from the Weatherby house to the hair found on the scene, it was highly likely that they both belonged to Princess Catherine. What luck! She had probably been here, and recently by the looks of it.

Maybe I had a chance of closing this case after all. I just had to steel myself for what I was about the endure. The men were certain to think me a fool, but I had a job to do. I took several deep breaths to calm myself, and then half marched; half dragged my trembling form toward the open warehouse door. I stopped dead in the opening, my eyes adjusting to the darkness within. Tables formed rows all across the building, with men either dragging fish to their stations with meat hooks or chopping specimens in preparation for their morning customers. Dead fish littered the floor and hung from hooks in the air. The smell almost knocked me down, but I stifled a gag reflex, and approached the man nearest the door. He stood apart from his companions, surveying their work, his hand stuck in his vest.

"Good morning Sir." My voice trembled, my mouth dry.

"Why good morning lass, and what can I do fer ya today? Have ya come to have a look at what's fer sale this mornin?" He tipped his bowler hat at me.

"I'm afraid not. I have a question for you and your men."

"Do ya now? And what might that be?" He still looked amused, though deflated once he realized I was not there to buy.

I dug into my pocket for the painting and held it up for him to see. "Aw, is that yer sweet kitty girl? What a pretty kitty cat."

"Yes, thank you. She's lost you see, and someone said they saw her here in this fish market."

"Did they now? Well, we have a mighty few cats about this place. They like the fish ya see. Strays come in all the time. You may have a look about, but be careful not to get in the way now girl, I do have a business to run." He winked at me, his blue eyes twinkling, reminding me of my grandmother's eyes.

"Thank you very much sir." I tried to give my sweetest smile as I curtseyed. That had been easier than I thought.

That was the first and only moment things would go my way that morning. I proceeded to ask every man I came across if they had seen my cat, and was met with a myriad of responses.

"Are you daft missus?" One fellow asked, turning to the man next to him, "Is she daft?" I blushed and went on my way.

"I ain't seen no cats around 'ere mum. 'e's a right pretty one tho," answered one nice gentleman.

"Why don't ya git on 'ome mum. Yer waistin yer time 'ere."

Some men just laughed, a few looked dumbstruck that I was even speaking to them. Some ignored me, while others simply shook their heads and went about their business. But, "No, mum" was the most popular response.

It was hard enough finding my way around the dead fish, let alone dodging flying knives and cleavers while I was at it. I felt incredibly thankful for the luck that kept me from eating that morning. After half an hour, I doubted I would ever smell anything but rotting fish for the rest of my life.

As I made my way along the gauntlet, I reached where the hole was in the back wall. You could not see it from inside because it was blocked by boxes stuffed with straw. I crept through the maze of boxes toward the hole, a faint trace of light leading the way. I finally had to crawl on my hands and knees, when I thought I heard a faint mewing sound. My heart leapt in my chest. I finally reached the hole, only to find three kittens huddled together. Well, there was proof of other cats here; maybe Princess Catherine was around somewhere.

I crawled back out of the jumble of boxes, and stood up near the wall of the warehouse. I took a good look around. Most of the men had their backs to me, except for those that kept watching me, whether out of good or bad intentions, I had no idea.

If I were a rich old woman's cat out on the town, where would I be? Other than the fish; tools, boxes, carts and various other items I did not recognize were spread among the men throughout the warehouse. A couple of ladders stood against the back wall near me. Gaslights hung from beams along the ceiling. Toward the front of the building, near where I had entered and behind the first man I had spoken to, stood a spiral stair case leading up to an enclosed office up above everything else. A shadow moved behind the blinds, and the door opened to reveal a man without a coat, and his sleeves rolled up. This man, I presumed to be a secretary judging by his visor, promptly descended the stairs. He did this in such a rush, that I thought something might be wrong, but he only walked swiftly over to the man at the door and spoke to him briefly.

My suspicions were realized when the man I thought had been so nice to me at the door sold me out by pointing right at me. I instinctively huddled into the shadows. Upon realizing how ridiculous this seemed, I decided to maintain my dignity and speak to the man face to face, but only after I had taken another look around. The scoundrel would have to physically carry me from the building before I gave up on this case. I must move quickly.

I slinked as stealthily as I could along the back wall, scanning the area for any other signs of possible feline inhabitants. As I moved, I noticed a number of cats living among the boxes. They meowed at me and attempted to rub against my legs through my skirts, hoping for some scrap of food. In the corner of the building opposite the office, there sat a mountain of crates and boxes gathering dust. I couldn't imagine what they were used for, but they seemed to be the home of some ten to fifteen cats. I had hit the mother lode.

My eyes furiously scanned the many cats surrounding me. None of them were white. A couple of cats jumped down from the crates up above my head, and my gaze shot upwards. Up on the very top crate, high above everything else and where she could see all of her surroundings, sat a large, white cat. Excitement flooded through me, but at that moment, the secretary had come up behind me, tapping me on the shoulder. "Excuse me madam, but unless you are a vendor you cannot be…" but I did not hear him finish his sentence because I had leapt up and started climbing the mountain of crates. I climbed furiously, catching my dress on nails and gathering dust and cobwebs in my skirts. "Madam!" shouted the secretary above the din of men and cats, "Madam, please come down! You cannot be in here!" I looked down at his annoyed face, his feet surrounded by cats.

"Just one moment." I never knew if he heard me, because at that second, the crates gave way, and I went crashing down into a pile of wood and debris. Once the collapse had ended, I sat bruised, scratched, and buried in splintered wood. The sudden landslide of crates brought every pair of eyes to my corner of the warehouse. The shock of it all knocked the air out of my lungs, and my corset did not help matters.

As I struggled to regain my footing, I noticed someone else in the pile of crates. The secretary was buried with me. Oh dear, this was bad. I had to get out before he did. I began to wade through the mess as many of the men hurried over to us, either to help us out or simply to escape from their work. The men laughed, even as they helped me out of the landslide. I suddenly remembered what I was after before the crash, and whirled around to look for the cat, but she was nowhere to be found. Dadgummit, this could not be happening.

As two men each grabbed me by a hand, I hurled myself between them. Dashing down an aisle, I frantically looked for Princess Catherine among the legs of the men. I had a sudden idea, and ran to the spiral staircase. As I raced up the stairs, the men shouted things at me, but I paid them no mind. I reached the top of the stairs, and came face to face with a handsome man in a suit. His blond hair was greased back and he looked as shocked to see me as I was to see him. "Um, hello" was my elegant response to his sudden appearance. He must be the manager, I thought, he probably came out to see what all the commotion was about.

"Can I help you?" he sounded perturbed, but polite. "Yes actually, you see I'm-" but I was cut off by a cry of "Sir, SIR! That's her!" Both the manager and I turned around to see the secretary running up the aisle towards us. Damn, I really was in trouble now. I only had one chance. I swiftly scanned the crowd for any sign of a white cat, but could not see anything through the men running around and the crates spilled all about. I had another idea and put my fingers in my mouth to let out a loud whistle. I got everyone's attention at that moment.

"Excuse me gentlemen, I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I have a request. Do you see a white cat among you?" They all looked at me, dumbfounded. I saw a flash of white out of the corner of my eye, and cried out, "There! Do you see it?" I pointed into the crowd, and just then, Princess Catherine jumped up on top of a table and began feasting on the fish lying there, seemingly forgotten.

"Oh no ya don't you mangy animal," shouted the respective table's owner. I hurried with my speech.

"Whoever brings me that cat, unharmed, will receive five pounds." I pulled the note from my pocket, and every man in the building stared. I waved it in the air as added encouragement.

"She can't be serious," I heard one man say among the multitude of grumbles and questioning looks.

"Oh, I am very serious. Five pounds to the man who brings me that cat!" I pointed, and was relieved when a few men started toward Princess Catherine. What followed cannot be entirely considered my fault, seeing as how the promise of money does terrible things to people.

Two men dove for the cat, and she jumped off the table, into the crowd. The ensuing tumult included several fights, numerous men running about the building, and a ruckus that I was afraid might bring the police.

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"So what happened next?" Watson's blue-eyed gaze was riveted on my face. "I do believe you've been around my friend Holmes too long. You seem to be taking after his affinity for dangerous shenanigans."

"I resent that. My shenanigans are harmless." Holmes retorted in mock hurt.

"Except for the time you were almost crushed by a ship."

"I have no idea what you mean. I was in perfect control of the situation."

"And there was the time you were hung up on a meat hook by a criminal mastermind."

"Then _you_ proceeded to drop a building on me. Again, I had complete control of the situation."

"What about the time you woke up handcuffed – "

"Watson! Stop diverting our attention from the matter at hand. The lady has not finished her explanation as to how she went looking for a cat and came home with a dog." He glanced at the corgi pup lying asleep on his back, all four stubby legs in the air.

"Well, as I was saying, I was worried all the noise would bring the police. Which, it did."

**Author's note**: Cliffhanger! Muahaha. But trust me, I will wrap everything up in the next chapter. I had so many ideas for this part that it ran a little long. Are you hooked so far? I have a lot of ideas for our next adventure, so you will have to stay tuned.

What do you think of Catherine so far? Is she believable? What about her and Holmes' relationship, any ideas? I put the little tidbit with Watson in here for one person in particular and I hope she appreciates it, teehee. Much more of Watson, Mary, the closing to the kidnapping case of Princess Catherine, and Catherine/Holmes banter to come. Please, please, PLEASE let me know what you think.

-Herstorian


	10. Chapter 10, Introducing Mr Rochester

Introducing Mr. Rochester

"Well, as I was saying, I was worried all the noise would bring the police. Which, it did." I paced around the room.

Watson looked at me warily, his chin in his hand.

"Are you saying you are a wanted woman? Alert Scotland Yard. I cannot have criminals in my household." Holmes said all of this whilst poking the corgi pup lying in his prone position on the floor with the violin bow.

"I beg your pardon! Would you kindly let me finish explaining myself?" My feathers were easily ruffled after the entire day's ordeal.

Holmes turned to sit sideways in his chair, violin bow in hand, looking bored. Watson dusted himself off, and then settled into his seat, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands peaked.

"Now then, all the ruckus from the warehouse brought two officers who were on their beat nearby."

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I stood at the top of the stairs watching dozens of men yell, fight, and claw their way towards Princess Catherine as she dodged between their legs. All of a sudden, I heard a whistle blow coming from the entrance to the warehouse. Two policemen stood in the doorway with their batons out. Their helmets glinted in the morning light; the leather straps beneath their chins making them look severe.

The officer who blew the whistle shouted, "Oy! What's goin on in 'ere? What's all this? Break it up you lot!" He blew the whistle again and a few men turned their attention to the police, fists still hanging in the air.

My stomach dropped down through my feet. Was I to be arrested? Would Holmes speak on my behalf? No, of course he wouldn't. He would probably walk in to see me behind bars then just laugh and wish me well. Certainly, Watson or Mary would help me? Technically, I had done nothing wrong. The man at the door gave me permission to enter and look around. That must hold up in court, mustn't it?

All these thoughts raced through my mind as I watched the secretary run over to the policemen and begin shouting and pointing up at me. His sleeves were unrolled and his tie was unwound, hanging around his neck. His green visor pushed back on his head.

The handsome grey eyed man, I assumed the manager, said, "You had better go down and explain yourself. It would look better if you approached them on your own terms." He gently put his hand on the small of my back to guide me.

He was right. I literally hung my head as I trudged down the stairs. The gentleman followed me, and I felt slightly comforted. Maybe he could vouch for me, though there was no reason at all why he should want to. His handsome face looked simultaneously amused and annoyed, but I could not put my finger on why he should be amused. Maybe he was like Holmes in that he found the things I did funny when I thought them foolish.

I moved towards the policemen on wobbly legs. I feared my knees would give out and somehow, I think the grey-eyed man knew how afraid I was and reached out to steady me by the elbow.

"By the way," he whispered, "my name is Nathan Perry, and I manage this humble establishment." I knew it. My heart sank. The manager was kind enough to walk me over to be sure I was arrested. I mumbled, "Nice to meet you-"but my voice disappeared in my throat as I approached the policemen.

Upon reaching the men in charge of my fate, I recognized the second policeman who had not spoken as Officer Clark. Relief washed over me. Officer Clark would certainly know what to do, and at least he knew that I worked with (for) Holmes. I regained some strength as I cried out "Officer Clark!" over the din of the still grappling men. He did not hear me until I was right in front of him, but upon seeing me looked confused, yet pleased.

"Why Miss Keaton, whatever are you doing here? Are you the cause of all this turmoil?"

"I'm afraid so sir. I am working on a case for Mr. Holmes and have somehow managed to start a riot."

"Whatever for?" He pulled me aside and through the door so we could hear each other better. Mr. Perry stayed inside the doorway, surveying his men.

"You see, it all started with this woman's lost cat. I was looking for it and found her here. She is there even now among all the men chasing her. I offered five pounds to whoever caught her, but that seems to not have been the best idea."

"Good lord, no wonder there is such a fuss. Five pounds is a lot of money. You should know better than to tease working men with the promise of free money."

"I'm so sorry Officer Clark. I never meant for any of this to happen." I was almost physically ill with the thought of possible arrest.

"That chap over there said you were trespassing," he said, nodding at the troublesome secretary.

"That's not true! I was invited in!" I bristled with indignation. "I can even show you the man who gave me permission…" and I whirled around looking for the man who had been at the door.

It was at that moment that a miracle happened. It almost occurred in slow motion, as I saw one worker chasing Princess Catherine up the aisle towards Officer Clark and I. I could see the look of determination on the man's face as he dove for her. At the last moment she leapt into the air, and landed in Officer Clark's arms. Officer Clark was as shocked as I was at this particular turn of events, and did not seem to believe his eyes. The man who had been chasing the cat scuttled to a halt at our feet, disappointment etched in every inch of his face.

"Ay, bugger it all! That damned animal is as slick as a greased pig to catch. I guess I don't get my reward." His eyes were downcast.

Officer Clark turned to me and nodded his head, so I reached into my pocket for the money. The man took the pro-offered bill with a huge smile and promptly turned toward the crowd and shouted over the noise, "Oy! Boys! I got her! Five pounds for me, mates!"

There was a general groan followed by shouts of disdain. I was afraid another fight might break out, but that was when the man who had been at the door, I found him to be the foreman shouted, "All right, back to work you lot! That's enough messin around."

Several men kicked the ground and some gave me dirty looks while others took off their hats and waved goodbye to me. I waved back tentatively and shrugged my shoulders as I tried to look sympathetic. Then, Mr. Perry shouted to them, "I'll pay for a round of drinks to any one of you who shows up to McGinty's tonight. Just one round though."

There was a cheer followed by a round of applause as Mr. Perry turned to me. I looked on with wide eyes and an open mouth as he said, "They might as well get something for their trouble. It will probably make them work harder for the rest of the day, since _some_ young lady has taken the liberty to distract them for the last hour."

"I'm so sorry for bothering you and your men. I truly apologize, I never meant for any of this to happen. It was supposed to be so simple."

At this point, Officer Clark came over with the cat still in his arms. "Was this the cause of all your trouble?" Princess Catherine mewed smugly, as if she was totally innocent of the events of the last three days.

"Yes sir, she seems to have taken a liking to you. It's a miracle that we've got her back. Thank you so much for your help." Thank heavens the cat liked Officer Clark, or we might still be chasing her.

"I suppose I better see you off and make sure everything is put to right." He turned to Mr. Perry, "Is there anything else I can do for you sir?" The sight was quite comical, a stern London policeman holding a large, fluffy white cat, her tail twitching up and down.

"Thank you officer, that will be all. Just see that Miss ah…?" He looked at me, questioning politely.

"Keaton. Catherine Keaton, sir." I took the liberty of curtsying. My muscles were stiff from my fall, and dirt covered my torn dress. I must have been a sight to behold.

"See that Miss Keaton returns home safely and causes no further damage to anyone else's business on the way." I blushed furiously, but I could not help a bashful smile.

"Oh, and Miss Keaton, whom do you work for that has sent you on such a strenuous errand?"

"I am working as an assistant for Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"_The_ Sherlock Holmes? Fascinating. Good day Miss Keaton, and please, do _not_ come again." He said his last remark with a wink, and turned away, his hands behind his back.

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Officer Clark and I caught a carriage back to the Weatherby house, and I explained the entire charade to him. The cabbie did look at us strangely with our unconventional cargo in tow, but took us on anyway.

"So this Weatherby fellow will reward you for your trouble?"

"Yes sir and I would be more than happy to share my payment with you."

"Oh no, do not trouble yourself Miss. All I did was catch; you did all the detective work." I smiled as we reached the Weatherby home. As I rang the bell, I could not wait to see the look on Charles' face. I was not disappointed because the dumbfounded expression, open mouth and fallen monocle and all, was well worth tramping around a smelly fish market all morning.

Mrs. Weatherby appeared behind him, "Charles, who is at the door?" Upon seeing who indeed was at the door, she went pale, then, just as I was afraid she was about to faint, let out a deafening squeal.

"My precious! You've found her! Oh you wonderful, wonderful girl!" She rushed forward to take Princess Catherine from Officer Clark's arms, tears streaming down her face.

Mrs. Weatherby's cries brought her husband to the door, where his quiet smile contrasted greatly with Charles' stunned expression.

"Well done Miss Keaton." The relief on his face was palpable.

Mrs. Weatherby asked through tears of joy, "However did you find her? I was sure that scoundrel of a kidnapper would never let her go."

Officer Clark took over, "The unsavory details are better left unsaid Madam. Suffice it to say, that Miss Keaton's methods succeeded in procuring your pet, and the offending party will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law." Mrs. Weatherby jutted her chin out, her eyes hard. Before she could protest, I reached into my pocket to return the portrait of Princess Catherine, which she took with grateful poise, handing it over to Charles who looked put out.

I made eye contact with Mr. Weatherby, and he nodded. "Why don't you take her inside and have the maid give her a bath. I will finish up this matter with Miss Keaton." Both Princess Catherine and I needed a good scrubbing. I was not sure I would ever get the fishy smell out of my dress.

"The devil that did this deserves the rope I tell you, make sure the judge knows that." She turned to me, "Thank you Miss Keaton for all of your hard work, I shall never be able to repay you." Her grateful face and watery eyes brought me a twinge of happiness.

"It was my pleasure Mrs. Weatherby. I'm just glad I was able to help you." She turned, hugging her precious cat, and headed upstairs. Looking over Mrs. Weatherby's shoulder, Princess Catherine's green eyes met mine, and her smashed face seemed to express betrayal. Curse that cat. If she went missing again, let the devil take her.

Once his wife had gone upstairs out of earshot, Mr. Weatherby continued, "I cannot thank you enough Miss Keaton. You have quite literally recaptured my wife's happiness, and rescued mine in the process. She's done us both a great service, hasn't she Charles?"

"Yes sir," answered the butler tentatively. Charles's opinion seemed to differ from that of his master, but it no longer bothered me. Let him look down on me forever. He would always resemble a walrus anyway.

Mr. Weatherby did not seem to notice the butler's disapproval as he said, "I suppose there is still the matter of payment to be dealt with?"

"Yes sir, if you do not mind." I blushed at the thought of asking for money, but chided myself for my childishness. It was perfectly natural that I should be paid for rendering a service. A man would not bat an eye at the thought.

Mr. Weatherby reached into his wallet, and pulled out four five pound notes. I gasped as he handed me twenty pounds and was about to protest when Officer Clark simply said, "Thank you very much sir. We'll be off now." He guided me down the street, and when I finally came to myself after the shock of receiving so much money, I turned around and shouted in a very unladylike way, "Thank you Mr. Weatherby! Thank you very much! Have a wonderful day," I waved rapidly at him and saw a slight smile grace his face as he turned back inside the house. Charles just glared at me, and then shut the door.

Passersby looked disgruntled at my display, but I ignored them. I had just solved my very own case (with a bit of luck) and had earned myself a place as Holmes' assistant.

"Well, speaking of spoiled pets," Officer Clark started talking as if I had not just been given a small fortune, "are you in the market for a dog? My wife's corgi just had pups, and she's got one left. We've been trying to get rid of him, but he's a bit off you see. He's the runt of the litter and his tongue is too long for his mouth. I have been asking everyone I know if they are in need of a dog. He might be a nice companion for you here in London."

My first thought was that it would be too much trouble. What did I need with a dog? They had to be walked everyday and cared for…but, it might be nice to have a companion; something to come home to (besides my eccentric 'roommate'). Having a pet might help with my mood. Walking him would get me out of the house and help me exercise. The doctors said exercise was the best medicine for me, other than having a husband to occupy myself. They thought I had too many ideas, too many things to think about, and that added to my episodes of melancholia. The fact that I read so much and preferred to be by myself rather than with other people just solidified their diagnoses. Having a dog was preferable to finding a husband, and so much less maintenance. I never expected any man to understand me or make me happy. A dog could love me unconditionally.

"Let's go have a look at him, shall we?" And we both turned towards Officer Clark's home.

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"Please Mrs. Hudson", I begged, "I will take complete responsibility for him." I held the squat puppy in my arms, his tongue lolling out. My heart instantly warmed at the thought of having something of my own to take care of. She looked at me, then at the pup, then up the stairs where some kind of explosion was heard.

"I suppose Miss Keaton, what is one more animal in the house?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"And what will be the gentlemen's name?"

I had been contemplating that on the carriage ride home. "Mr. Rochester." Jane Eyre was my favorite book, though this dog in no way resembled his namesake.

"Surely he has a Christian name?" She eyed the dog in my arms warily, as if his name might make him worthy of distrusting.

"Chester. Mr. Chester Rochester, at your service." Chester's stare was blank, and he did not even bat an eye at the explosion we heard upstairs. Maybe he was deaf?

"Chester!" I said in a harsh whisper, and jerked his head around. No, he was not deaf, but whether or not he was dumb still remained to be seen. The long tongue hanging out of his mouth did not help matters.

I marched upstairs, my heart light and content. Upon knocking at Holmes' door, Dr. Watson appeared, covered in a fine powder. "Well hello Miss Keaton, how is the case going?" I was surprised Holmes had even mentioned it to him.

"Have a seat, and I shall tell you all about it."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: What do you think? Any ideas about what will come next? Anything you want to really see? Let me know!

I hope to get the next chapter up by next Friday, but if it turns out that it will be later I will post a note :)


	11. Chapter 11, Fashion and Friction

Fashion and Friction

The weak light of a cloudy London afternoon illuminated the room through my window. I sat in the middle of the floor of my room, watching Chester survey his new territory. He would waddle over to the bed and sniff it, then over to the dresser or vanity, then along the many shelves that lined the room, leftover from Dr. Watson's office. My petticoats lay splayed out around me. I needed a bath, and soon. The fishy smell from the mornings' adventure still lingered on my dress lying piled on the floor near the door, waiting to go down with the wash. I looked down at my modest corset; it had been white once, now it was a dingy grey. My three petticoats, all that I owned, needed replacing. They were old leftovers from my childhood my mother had re-hemmed, as I grew taller. The colorful mismatched patterns were an odd juxtaposition to the plainness of the dress usually worn over them.

I stood up and wandered over to my trunk, opening it up to survey my modest wardrobe. I pulled out my nicest dress, a printed pink calico, and frowned. None of my dresses even remotely resembled women's' clothing here in London. For over a month, I had stuck out like a sore thumb. I had absolutely nothing to wear to dinner tonight. Holmes had said we would go somewhere special to celebrate my promotion to his assistant. Dr. and Mrs. Watson were to accompany us.

The four five pound notes lay on the bed where I had emptied them from my reticule. I had never owned so much money in my life. But what to do with it? If it were in American bills, I would not think twice about sending it to my family. I really had everything I needed here; a few pieces of furniture, my most beloved possessions from home, and room and board courtesy of Mrs. Hudson as a favor to my Uncle Ian with the agreement that I would work and clean up after Holmes.

One thing I learned quickly was that Holmes usually took dinner late, after 8 o'clock. It was only now just after lunchtime. Maybe I could find a new dress before dinner tonight. It would be worth a try, especially since I now had my own money to spend. I swayed on my feet as sleep threatened to wash over me. Waking up so early without much sleep the night before had taken a toll on my body. If I wanted to be presentable for dinner, I needed to get cleaned up and begin my search for a dress.

Chester chose a corner of the room to curl up in, his tongue hanging out of his short snout. Once he looked sufficiently comfortable, I shrugged on my robe and headed to the bathroom to wash myself up. On my way out into the hallway, I heard another explosion as Watson yelled out, "For God sake Holmes! I want to survive to see my wife again!"

At that moment, Watson opened the door to Holmes' room in a rush, startling me on my way down to the bathroom. I clutched at my robe, blushing to my toes. He stopped, covered in blue powder this time, and looked at me with wide eyes, "Oh, excuse me Miss Keaton. I am terribly sorry." His eyes darted anywhere but at my robe.

"It's quite alright doctor. I do not blame you for trying to escape." I nodded with my eyes downcast. How embarrassing! What would Mary think?

An idea occurred to me once I thought about Mary, and I hurriedly asked Watson as he turned to leave, "Would I be alright if I paid Mary a visit today? I would like her advice about where to locate a new dress."

He glanced back at me in mild surprise answering, "I am sure she would be more than happy to help." He turned to descend the stairs, his cane in his hand.

"Be on your guard," he said cryptically as he trotted down the stairs. "We'll see you at dinner this evening," were his final words shouted in my direction.

I hoped he meant to be on guard against whatever madness Holmes was up to in his room. What else could he mean? There was really no telling, not where Holmes was involved.

I scooted my way on down to the bathroom as I heard another small explosion echo from within the detective's room.

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Upon arriving at the Watson residence, I rang the bell. A young blonde maidservant answered the door, and I asked for Mrs. Watson. Mary smiled at me as she reached the door, inviting me in.

"Why hello Catherine, John said you would come by. I have not seen you for a couple of weeks. How are you surviving rooming with Mr. Holmes?" Her beautiful red hair was drawn up in intricate curls, and her grey eyes matched perfectly with the dove grey suit she wore. She was the picture of an elegant, fashionable London woman.

"Hello Mary," I said as I took her hand in both of mine. "It's so wonderful to see you again. I am making do with Holmes, but at the moment I have more pressing matters. Where can I find a new dinner dress? I'd like to have something by this evening, and nothing that I own seems nice enough. Since I am not on a ranch anymore, every dress I have always looks too casual to be worn around London. Do you have any suggestions for stores I might visit?"

Her eyes lit up, "Shopping? Oh, that sounds like fun. Do you mind if I accompany you? I've been cooped up in the house all day, and we may have a nice girl's afternoon and catch up." My heart felt light at the thought of not having to face the strange city alone.

"Oh course you may accompany me! I would like nothing better." I smiled at her.

"Just allow me to let John know and then we'll leave." She patted my hand and then rose to tell Watson where we were going. I sat and waited for her in the parlor.

As she climbed the stairs, I heard her soft voice calling "John." Her voice was always so soothing; it reminded me of my own mother's.

She came back downstairs looking smart in her velvet hat with blue ribbon.

"John's just cleaning up. He was quite a mess when he returned from visiting Mr. Holmes. I'm not sure if we'll ever be able to get that blue dye out of his suit." At this, she allowed herself a brief pout, then turning to me asked, "Shall we be off?"

"Certainly." And I followed her out the door.

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I saw Holmes and Watson sitting at the table as Mary and I approached. The two gentlemen appeared to be arguing good naturedly about something. Watson leaned his head back and laughed, just as Holmes took out his pocket watch to check the time. My knees felt weak as the two of us neared the table. Holmes just looked so _good,_ so handsome in his coat and tails. The man should really dress up more often.

The maître d' led us toward the men, and I noticed many eyes in the restaurant on me. Did I really look that odd? They must know I do not belong. These and other negative thoughts racked my anxious mind.

I looked down at my midnight blue silk taffeta dinner dress. I had insisted on a higher neckline, the dipping V-necked dresses that were in fashion for evening wear made me feel distinctly naked. I had never shown this much skin in my life. The rounded neckline of the gown showed off my shoulders and scooped seductively toward my bust, barely indicating the swell of pale flesh nestled there. The fabric hugged my hips, as was the protocol of the day, and I was stunned at the way my hips swayed when I moved. A brand new corset creaked beneath my new dress, molding my figure and synching in my waist more than I was accustomed. My arms were totally bare except for the cap sleeves of the dress. _Gloves!_ Curses! I had forgotten about the gloves!

The dress was, without question, the most expensive piece of clothing I had ever purchased or worn. But, in that moment, it more than made up for its cost when Holmes looked at me.

His dark eyes darted from my face to the exposed flesh of my neck and shoulders, then back again. His eyes lingered at my waist and hips as I approached the table, and my knees almost buckled beneath my dress. Warmth pooled in my stomach and I felt blood rush to my face. He looked at me so quickly that I felt his gaze more than saw it. I was beaming on the inside. I had attracted the attention of the world's greatest detective, the man who was thought to be impossible to impress. My heart fluttered in my chest with excitement. As soon as I made eye contact with him, he looked away and I sensed some apprehension coming from him though he looked as composed as ever.

Both Holmes and Watson rose from their seats when Mary and I reached the table. They bowed to us, and then pulled out our respective chairs. I awkwardly shuffled my ample skirts into my seat. Once we were seated, Holmes seemed determined to look at absolutely everything in the restaurant but me.

"So, you ladies finally decided to grace us with your presence." Even if he was not pretending to be upset, I could not care less.

"We were a whole total of ten minutes late Holmes. For women, that's not bad at all, is it?" I glanced at Mary as I attempted to make light of the situation even though my heart was hammering in my chest, flushing my cheeks.

"John, don't you think Cathy looks lovely in her new dress?" Mary was busy prying a compliment from Watson for my sake.

"Quite lovely." Watson's blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at me. I blushed; even if he was just being nice, it did not happen every day that a handsome man complimented me.

"Shall we get on with dinner?" Holmes bristled next to me, opening up his menu and shielding himself from our sight. Watson restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

I glanced down and did not recognize a single item on the menu. What was filet minion? Maybe I could ask for grilled chicken or beef. Anxiety flooded through my system and beads of sweat formed on my upper lip. I wiped them away as discreetly as I could.

I finally took a look around and noticed all the finely dressed people surrounding us. Upstanding men in white ties and women wearing their best jewels populated the restaurant. Most of the women's dresses seemed to be brighter in color than mine. Yellow and pink were the most celebrated shades. Darker hues of black and green also dotted the crowd. Finally, looking down at my plate, I saw the most intimidating set of silverware ever imagined. I had only ever used one knife, fork, and spoon. What was I supposed to do with all these superfluous utensils?

My wide eyes must have caught the attention of Mary because she comforted me by saying, "It's fairly simple, you just start using the ones on the outside, and work your way inward with each course." Her kind smile reassured me so I felt comfortable asking her about the questionable menu choices.

"What is filet minion? Is it a kind of steak?" At my words I heard Holmes snort behind his shield, and the three of us turned to him simultaneously. However, he did not lower his menu, so Mary answered my question, "Yes dear. It's a small piece of beef surrounded by bacon. I think you would like it."

"Bacon makes anything better," was my comment. Holmes took the liberty of snorting again, and this time I had had enough.

"Is there a problem?" I asked his menu.

"Of course not," he said in a superior tone, snapping his menu shut. "I simply find your rural ignorance of proper dinner etiquette amusing."

I was taken aback. Was he calling me stupid? What on earth was he on about?

"Excuse me?" I asked in disbelief. Was he being mean on purpose? My suddenly raised voice attracted the attention of the table next to us, and I lowered it saying, "I don't know what you are up to Holmes, but you seem determined to ruin a lovely outing. You've reached your quota of insults for the evening. Let's get on with dinner, shall we?"

"There's no need to be emotional." That struck a nerve. How did he know exactly what to say to anger me?

Watson saw the look on my face and interjected, "Now Holmes, do try and be a gentleman. We are celebrating here, or do you not remember?" Watson sounded like he was trying to lighten the situation while warning Holmes that he had gone too far. The trouble was, Holmes never thought he had gone too far.

The tense moment was avoided when the waiter arrived, taking our orders. I stuck with the filet minion and a glass of red wine recommended by the waiter. Though I drank only once a month due to my cycle and the pain involved, I looked forward to having some wine. It was bound to relax me. I needed all the help I could get to put up with Holmes at the moment.

Watson, Mary, and I made small talk until the food arrived. Mary asked about the case I had solved, and Watson added encouraging compliments when called for. All the while, Holmes looked bored and swung his pocket watch around by the chain, his eyes surveying everyone in the room except the people he sat with. I simply could not concentrate on my conversation with Mary and Watson when Holmes was acting the way he was. I absentmindedly drew shapes on the white tablecloth and turned my water class around in circles. I had moved on to twisting my napkin in my lap to displace my unease when dinner finally arrived.

My food was wonderful, Mary was right about the filet minion. The silence that fell among people eating was broken by Holmes announcing, "I suppose you should tell her Watson, all the trials that come with being my assistant."

Watson sighed and put down his knife and fork, "I was never your assistant." He briefly turned to me, "Not that there is anything wrong with that," he added quickly. "I simply aided in your investigations. And, I think you have made a wonderful choice in a partner, if I do say so myself."

"Do you think she can handle it? We did get into a tight spot now and then." Holmes folded his hands in front of his stomach.

"I think she is more than capable of handling whatever you may throw at her." Watson smiled at me and Mary moved to place her hand over his.

"Thank you Dr. Watson. It's nice to know someone has faith in my potential." I felt very grateful indeed.

"How do you plan to go about training for your position?" Holmes turned to me and finally looked me in the eye.

"I should think my employer would do his job and train me."

"I must first know what skills you possess."

"I was not aware this was an interview. I was under the impression that we were celebrating my success. Don't you think you should have mentioned something important such as knowing whether or not I could handle being your assistant before you promised me the job?"

"I never remember promising you anything."

"If you don't want me to work for you just say so."

Watson and Mary watched our verbal sparring as if it were a tennis game, their eyes looking at him, then me, and back again. I was growing angrier by the second. What on earth was he doing?

I was on the verge of telling him exactly where he could go and what he could to with himself once he got there, when a woman's scream echoed across the dining hall. A matronly woman of about sixty was standing up at her table, shrieking, her hands flapping all about. The feathers in her hair bobbed around as she turned this way and that, obtaining the attention of everyone in the restaurant.

Watson asked rhetorically glancing in her direction, "What the devil is going on?"

Holmes dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then added calmly, "The game is afoot."

Turning to me, his eyes much brighter than I had seen them all evening, he asked, "How do you feel about finding a jewel thief as your first case?"

**Author's note**: Well, here it is. I'm not totally happy with it, but it will get better, just stick with me. Finally, a tiny bit of romance, huh? How do you feel about Watson and Mary?

Thank you to all of you who follow me or have favorited me or have left me reviews. I truly appreciate it. Even more reviews would be lovely For those of you who have left reviews but are not registered with the site, I can't message you personally to thank you but I want you to know how grateful I am. Stay tuned for the beginning of a new case next week!


	12. Chapter 12, Burgled Baubles

Burgled Baubles

I was on the verge of telling him exactly where he could go and what he could to with himself once he got there, when a woman's scream echoed across the dining hall. A matronly woman of about sixty was standing up at her table, shrieking, her hands flapping all about. The feathers in her hair bobbed around as she turned this way and that, obtaining the attention of everyone in the restaurant.

Watson asked rhetorically glancing in her direction, "What the devil is going on?"

Holmes dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then added calmly, "The game is afoot."

Turning to me, his eyes much brighter than I had seen them all evening, he asked, "How do you feel about finding a jewel thief as your first case?"

Holmes rose from his seat, offering me his arm. I sensed that we were 'on the job' and stood up. He was careful not to let our hands touch, but he let me lace my arm through his as we strode over to the woman in distress. I had never been on the arm of any man besides William, and I suddenly felt like a different person, on the arm of a man not my friend or kin. My silk taffeta dress rustled as we made our way to the woman's table. As we approached, I saw a waiter and presumably the restaurant manager rush to her side. She stood surrounded by the two men in addition to one other man I took to be her son, maybe her nephew. He appeared to have the same green eyes she did.

"Are you alright madam? What seems to be the matter?" The restaurant manager seemed to be trying to calm her down, but to no avail.

"They're gone!" She wailed, "My jewels have been stolen! You must do something!"

"Please madam, tell me what has happened and I will do my utmost to assist you." The manager was on the brink of panic.

The younger man urged the restaurateur, "Call someone, Call Scotland Yard! Don't just stand there like an imbecile; my mother's diamonds have been stolen!" So he was her son, I noted as Holmes and I approached the table. The woman eyed us both as we encroached on the circle of men.

"Pardon me, Sherlock Holmes, coming through." Holmes elbowed his way to the front of the group with me by his side. The manager and waiter looked incredulous, but were hesitant to face the woman's wrath, so they let Holmes take over.

The woman was tall, taller than me at me. The feathers in her hair made her appear even taller, the plumes of black and white ostrich feather floating all about. Her quaffed grey hair stood in contrast with her green eyes. Her quite ample bosom was what struck me first; she was showing quite a bit of cleavage for her age. She was dressed in the finest clothes, even I could tell that much. The rich fabric of her black and white dress had shine to it. Whatever jewels had been stolen must have been worth some exorbitant amount.

Her table sat at the outskirts of the circular dining hall, near the pillars that supported the roof. She must have come from the ladies' powder room or somewhere, because she stood with her back to the dark hallway leading to the main entrance. She had not just burst into the dining hall, she had gone to her table, which just so happened to be at the edge of the hall.

I took all of this in as Holmes began, "It appears you have been robbed. May I be of assistance?"

The woman looked at him, then me, and back again. "Are you a constable? If not, how on earth could you assist me?"

"On the contrary madam, I am better than a constable. I am Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm afraid I've never heard of you." She sounded dismissive, as she raised her chin and clasped her hands in front of her, narrowing her eyes at us.

"Well I have heard of you, Lady Sheffield." Of course, Holmes would already know who she was. Holmes knew who everyone was.

She looked at him, only mildly surprised. "Many people know who I am; I have my husband's good name to thank for that. How do you propose to find my stolen jewelry Mr. Holmes?"

"By you hiring me to find the person who stole your jewelry. I assure you, the faster you hire me the quicker we may get on with the case." Holmes raised his pipe to his mouth, puffing on non-existent smoke.

"This is Miss Keaton, my assistant" he added without ceremony. Lady Sheffield studied our faces: Holmes looked capable and he had that aura of brilliance about him, while I looked pale and completely out of my element. Nevertheless, standing next to Holmes gave me strength, and his belief in me, whether real or feigned for this occasion, was enough for me to feel confident to be there next to him.

"All we need to proceed is your acquiescence." She looked at him doubtfully, then appeared to register that he was her best hope. He took her silence as permission.

"How did it happen precisely?"

"I was having dinner here with my son, when I began to feel faint, and retired to the ladies' room. There I lay upon the fainting couch, and an attendant saw to me, when I fainted dead away. When I came to due to the smelling salts administered by the ladies' room attendant, my diamond necklace along with my bracelet were gone. I immediately accused the attendant and had the Housekeeper search her person for them, but nothing was found. The attendant said she left to go get the smelling salts while I was under and that someone must have come into the room and stolen them right from off my neck. It must be someone in this building. I demand the entire servants' quarters be searched and every one working in this establishment questioned."

"I agree." Holmes spun around, facing the restaurant at large. "Everyone, may I have your attention please! There has been a robbery, and you must all be searched."

The restaurant manager said "No!" and tried to shush him. Holmes turned around, unruffled but curious. "You said you wanted everyone in this building searched, is that not so?" He nodded toward Lady Sheffield, who just raised her nose at him.

"Must you be so _obnoxious_?" The restaurant manager was on his last nerve. "Now then, Lady Sheffield, we will call Scotland Yard immediately."

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"Where do we begin?" I was curious to see how he went about his investigations. Holmes and I stood at the edge of the dining hall, observing the police officers interview the entire restaurant.

"Follow me," he growled, his pipe in his mouth. We turned to go down the dark hallway behind Lady Sheffield's table where the ladies' powder room was located. The gaslights broke up the darkness every so often, reflecting off the red wallpaper. The eerie lighting lent itself well to the idea of a thief hiding among the shadows. We stopped in front of the door to the women's lavatory and Holmes took this moment to light his pipe. The glow of the match lit up his face for a second. The ladies' room door was in a pool of darkness between two lanterns. It was not impossible that a thief could go unnoticed into or out of the room.

"I suppose I should have a look around. Might you tell me what in particular you are looking for?" I assumed Holmes would wait for me outside the door.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, as he reached forward and turned the door handle.

"Holmes! What are you doing? You can't – " but I was not able to finish admonishing him before he had barged into the women's lavatory. I heard screams, and rushed in behind him.

"Sir, you cannot be in here!" A woman I took to be the attendant was trying to bar him from entering. Screams echoed from every corner, as women came rushing out from behind doors and at least one fainted dead away.

"Pervert! How dare you!" Shouted one aged woman. A younger woman shrieked and immediately ducked behind a folding screen. Holmes ignored them all and stalked over to the fainting couch. Amid the chaos, I made an attempt to quell the situation. "Ladies, if you would, please exit the room. This is a police investigation. We are sorry for the inconvenience."

Holmes walked around, surveying the room, a strangely calm figure amid a flourish of feathers and silk. After the rustling and bustling women had retreated, I turned to question the attendant.

"Excuse me madam, but there has been a robbery, if you were unaware. Lady Sheffield's jewels were stolen while she was unconscious in here. Were you witness to this incident?"

She looked affronted and glowered at me, then at Holmes, his back to us both. "Yes I was here with her. The woman accused me of stealing her diamonds." The woman turned sallow, apparently withholding her true feelings. Her dark eyes sparked with indignation. I tried to keep calm and convince her to do the same.

"My name is Catherine Keaton; I am working as an assistant to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective." I gestured to the offending man standing by the window. "He is investigating the case and any information you could give us would be of the utmost help." I needed to convince her we did not accuse her of the crime. "Could you tell me what happened when Lady Sheffield came in?"

The woman sighed, and her corset creaked as she sat upon the couch. She really was a lovely woman, her dark hair curled and her large dark eyes wide with subdued fear as she looked up at me. She knew what she was in a dangerous situation, with Lady Sheffield accusing her of thievery.

Her dark eyes darted between Holmes and I, seemingly uncertain of how to proceed. I urged her on, "Please madam, we will do anything we can to help you."

She began to speak slowly, and in a small voice, as if afraid of being overheard, "I was the only one in the room, when Lady Sheffield came in. She comes to this restaurant often, and I knew who she was, though I had never directly spoken with her. The manager, Mr. Thorn, discourages me from speaking with the patrons unless specifically addressed. She seemed as though her knees were about to give way, so I helped her to the couch, where she lay down. I went across the room to get a cool cloth to place upon her forehead, but when I reached her, she seemed unconscious. I administered various smelling salts, in an attempt to rouse her, but she did not awaken. I decided I must get something stronger to wake her up, so I exited the room and went down the hall to the cupboard where the supplies are kept. I obtained a stronger degree of salts, and returned to apply them. It took me several minutes, but she finally awoke, only to begin shrieking that I had stolen her jewels."

She took a deep breath, "Suddenly I realized, she was right. She had been wearing the same diamonds she had every time I had seen her when she entered the room, but when I came back from the cupboard, they were missing! I adamantly denied any wrongdoing, but she would hear none of it. Her shouting brought the Head Housekeeper, who proceeded to search my pockets and stockings for any sign of the jewelry."

The attendant swallowed before continuing, as though what she was about to say was unpleasant to her. "When they did not find the jewels, the Housekeeper called in a maid to help search my person. They…they forced me into one of the stalls and insisted that I remove my clothing! I did not know what to do. If I refused, they would surely assume I was guilty, and I preferred to be searched by women on the premises than by constables upon my arrest." She took a shuddering breath, trying to keep calm.

"Of course, they found nothing, and once they told Lady Sheffield that I must be innocent, she stormed out of the room. The housekeeper took the maid with her to report the incident to the Mr. Thorn, and I, still in shock from the entire situation, stayed here in an attempt to collect myself. Other women were on their way in when Lady Sheffield left, so I had to attend to them. I am forbidden to leave my position during the time assigned to me. I decided to wait for the police to come in and arrest me. I knew that if I fled, I would not only lose my position, but it would certainly solidify my guilt in their minds. The hallway is so long that I never heard anything that was going on outside. I assumed Lady Sheffield had called the police and that they were on the way."

I digested everything she had said as I saw Holmes come over and address the woman, without ever looking at her. He seemed consumed with examining the couch she occupied. "How long would you say you were out of the room when you went to the cupboard?"

"About a minute, maybe two. The cupboard closet is at the other end of the hall."

I took the time he was interviewing her to survey the room for myself. The powder room was filled with various chairs and couches, ferns and screens. Only one small window illuminated the dark room, in addition to the few gaslights along the walls. Mirrors lined the wall adjacent to the door. The attendant's cupboard stood in the corner, her collection of towels and soaps set in shelves along the wall. Various perfumes and salts accompanied the expected tools of her trade. I would have described the room as luxurious, yet uninviting. The darkness hardly aided the purpose of the looking glasses.

"You are certain you were the only person in the room when Lady Sheffield entered?" His eyebrows knitted together as he puffed on his pipe, never looking at the attendant.

"I am sure of it, though anything is possible. But I would think, if the thief was hidden in the room, one of the patrons would have noticed him. How could he have known which stall would not be occupied?" She gestured to the wall of doors leading to the bathroom stalls. Indeed, how could a thief know which to occupy, and not be seen?

I interrupted Holmes with a question of my own, "Was the window open at all today? Is it normally kept locked?"

"No, I am forbidden from opening the window no matter how stuffy it gets in here. Mr. Thorn does not want the ladies to get a chill," she said the last part rather ironically.

Holmes straitened up, exhaling smoke. The sweet smell was unlike my grandmother's peppery tobacco, hers always made my eyes water.

"I know you did not steal her jewels." Holmes said this for her benefit, and she looked immediately relieved. I had not thought her guilty either, but I was not the deductive genius Holmes was. I walked over to look out the window, and noticed that a man could possibly climb inside, though it would probably make quite a racket, with the window and the heavy drapes in his way. I looked behind the drapes, a man could have hidden behind them, although there was no guarantee he would not be discovered.

Before I could take a better look around the room, Holmes called to me, "Come along." He briefly turned to the attendant, "I shall inform the police of your innocence. Good day."

I was slightly taken aback, though I knew there must be a method to Holmes' madness. Instead of immediately going to him, I pretended it was a suggestion rather than a command. "Very well. Thank you for your help, Mrs…?"

"Mrs. Hanson. Virginia Hanson." She nodded at me, visibly relieved. I followed Holmes out the door. He strode quickly further down the hall to investigate the storage cupboard. He did not seem to find anything amiss, though I was hardly one to be able to tell, and we walked back toward the main dining hall. The darkness of the hallway seemed strangely intimate as I whispered to him, "So, what do you think? Any ideas?"

"Just one," was his curt answer. I knew he would elaborate when he was ready; he was never one to give up an opportunity to regale me with his methods.

As we reached the dining hall, we saw Inspector Lestrade and Officer Clark walking towards us, on their way to interview Mrs. Hanson.

"Don't bother. She didn't do it," was all Holmes said. The men stopped short, and Inspector Lestrade stood with his mouth slightly ajar.

"Holmes – "

"Feel free if you wish to waste your time. I would be disappointed if you didn't."

We passed the two men, and Holmes strode right past Lady Sheffield and the officers surrounding her. I did not know if I should say anything, so I simply nodded toward her and followed Holmes back toward our table. Lady Sheffield eyed us both, but did not stop us. She stood with her son, a handsome blonde man, and two other officers. I did not understand why Holmes did not at least tell her that Mrs. Hanson was innocent.

As we approached our table with our now very cold dinner, Watson and Mary turned to us, breaking their conversation.

"What's the trouble Holmes, solve the case already?" Watson spoke with a tone that suggested he was not being very sarcastic. Had Holmes really solved cases that quickly before?

"Is John right Mr. Holmes? Have you already solved the case?" Mary's dove grey eyes sparkled with disbelief.

"There really was no case to solve. The woman 'stole' her own jewels. The real mystery is why, and that is what I intend to find out."

**Author's Note: **I'm not totally sold with this one, but it's been a busy couple of weeks. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update, graduate school and work have begun. Thank you for being patient. I would like to update at least every other week from now on. Let me know what you think. Are they in character? Are you intrigued? I would advise readers to follow the story so you don't have to keep checking back all the time. Have a great week!


	13. Chapter 13, Curiouser and Curiouser

Curiouser, and Curiouser

Firelight reflected off the red walls that separated Holmes' room from the outside world. I sat in the armchair, Chester in my lap, his tongue hanging out. I was beginning to realize this would be his trademark. Watson and Mary had parted ways with us outside the restaurant, yet Watson looked a little regretful that he was no longer Holmes' partner in crime. His blue eyes looked slightly nostalgic as Mary led him toward a different carriage. Holmes had been silent on the way back to Baker Street; only the glow of his pipe lit the dark carriage. I let my mind wander as the streetlights passed and I could not wait until we arrived back home so he could explain his deduction that Lady Sheffield had 'stolen' her own jewels.

"So," I began, "would you care to enlighten me on how you came to your conclusion?" I stroked Chester's ears as he snored, lying across my knees.

Holmes removed his tailcoat as he stalked about the room, throwing it in a pile on the floor as he untied his neckerchief.

"Why don't you tell me?" He put me on the spot, and I stopped petting Chester in surprise. Chester seemed unsettled by my sudden change in demeanor, and opened his black beady eyes, looking up at me.

"I thought you were the detective." Maybe I could redirect his questioning away from me.

"I thought I had hired you as my assistant. It is time to make yourself useful." I felt offended. As if I had not been of use all evening! _I _was the one who interviewed Mrs. Hanson. He had hardly bothered to talk to the woman.

I told him as much, "Excuse me, but I believe I was the one who interviewed Mrs. Hanson and obtained the information to confirm her innocence." Even as I said it, I knew I was reaching too far. He would have done just fine without me. I prayed he could not see the blush rising in my cheeks from my mistake in judgment.

He had the audacity to snort, but just as he did, he was loading his pipe with more tobacco, so when he snorted little bits of tobacco flew into the air. It was my turn to snort, and Chester jumped in my lap. I suddenly realized he was getting dog hair all over my dress, and decided maybe I should not be too pleased with myself.

"How very lady-like of you." Holmes unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white shirt, his pipe bobbing up and down as he spoke. I was still too amused from seeing him with tobacco all over his face to take offense.

"You snorted first good sir."

"Do as I say, not as I do. I had no idea you were so impressionable." I settled on rolling my eyes, another unladylike habit. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dusted his face off in as dignified a manner as he could muster.

"How dare you insult a lady. I should sick my dog on you." I looked down at said canine, and he looked back at me, then at Holmes, his limp pink tongue and beady black eyes making him look quite comical.

"He's meaner than he looks," I added dubiously. Holmes glanced at Chester, then me. I noticed the slight glint in his eye that indicated an inward smile, and smirked at him. As soon as I did, his face changed, as if his fleeting amusement had never occurred, and he walked over to the fireplace, picking up a red-hot poker from within. He began walking about the room, twirling the fire iron around and swiping it through the air as if it were a sword.

As he did this, he finally returned to the matter at hand. "First, tell me what you think happened. Then, I will tell you what _really_ took place."

My eyes never left the swinging fire iron as I stuttered, "I don't think that's the best idea." Chester jerked in my lap every time Holmes made an extra quick jab.

"Nonsense. I want to know what you think."

"I wasn't referring to your question; I meant that maybe you swinging around a searing hot red poker while I am in the room would not be the safest action to take."

"I am perfectly in control of the situation."

"Famous last words of a fool." He took another swipe through the air, and this time the iron struck the stand holding the other pokers. Sparks flew as metal collided and the sound of iron bars clattering to the ground echoed throughout the room.

At the same time the irons were struck Chester yelped and jumped from my lap, ducking beneath my seat for safety.

"_Please stop!"_ I stood up in alarm. I knew I sounded shrill, but he was frightening me

"What on earth are you so frustrated about?" I did not know how I knew this, but something about him seemed stern. He had hardly spoken all evening since our quarrel at dinner. He seemed to look at me in surprise for a moment, and I did not know if it was because of my scream or because of my deduction concerning his mood.

He appeared to come to his senses, and placed the hot poker back in the fire.

"Forgive me. Perhaps now is not the best time to discuss this." He tucked his hands behind him. I was taken aback. Was he really that upset? What on earth was wrong with him?

I began to protest, but decided against it. If he was not in a good mood, there was nothing I could do to improve it.

"Very well. Goodnight." I reached down and scooped up Chester from beneath the armchair. On my way toward the door I paused in front of Holmes, Chester curled in my arms.

"I have no idea what's gotten into you, but I hope you are in a better mood by tomorrow morning. We have work to do." I met his eyes to let him know how serious I was. He only looked at me, his gaze flat, as if he wasn't really seeing me at all. He turned his head to the fire and nodded, as if I was dismissed.

My footsteps echoed across the room, the only sound besides the crackling of the fire. His room felt empty even with the both of us inside. Holmes just wasn't present, and I had no idea why.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

I awoke to the sound of scratching. I opened my eyes and through my bleary vision saw a blob of yellow at the door. I sat up in alarm, and as my sight adjusted, I remembered the events from the previous day. Chester sat at the door, whining and scratching at the wood. I hurried out of bed and into some clothes to take him for a walk. A gust of September air swept over me, jolting me awake as I stepped outside with Chester in tow. I did not yet have a leash for him so a length of rope would have to do for now.

As I stumbled down the street, still half asleep, I realized I had no idea where I was going. I decided to turn around and head toward the local park. It seemed odd for Chester to have to attend to his 'business' on the street. We had walked a couple of blocks when I heard someone calling my name.

"Miss Catherine, Miss Catherine!" Maggie walked toward me, a basket of fresh produce from the market on her arm. Strands of her fiery red hair blew in the breeze.

"Oh Maggie, Good Morning." My voice sounded hoarse and scratchy from lack of sleep. Nevertheless, I knew I had to get used to getting up early if I was going to be keeping Chester.

"And if it ain't Mr. Rochester. 'e sure is a handsome fellow." Maggie curtsied at us, looking down at the dog.

"Don't compliment him too much, you'll give him a big head."

"Oh g'on." She flipped her hand in my direction as she chuckled cheerfully.

A thought inched it's way to the surface of my addled brain. "Maggie," I asked, "has Mr. Holmes been acting strangely lately? Have you noticed him being a bit, off?"

"Why Miss, e's always that way, you know that as well as I do. Though, 'e was a bit off color when 'e came back from the dead and all that."

It took a moment before I remembered what she was talking about. William had told me about it, all those months ago, back in, when was it? February? He had always kept up with Holmes's cases because he got the London Times in from Galveston every month. William was always interested in the famous Sherlock Holmes. He used to regale me with stories of Holmes' adventures that were published in the newspapers. William was fascinated with them, but I had never shown much interest until I discovered I would be rooming with the world famous detective once I arrived in London. William had responded to my news with a very nasty letter just reeking of jealousy. I remembered how devastated and then how delighted he had been when news of Holmes' death/resurrection reached American shores.

"Do you mean, he was the same before, just as moody I mean?"

"Oh mum, e's always been moody, but just after it happened, 'im comin back from the dead and all, 'e seemed extra out of sorts. Dr. Watson finally told Mrs. 'udson 'ow Miss Adler 'ad passed, and we realized that must've been what 'e was on about. Every now and then 'e would be even more sour than usual, and we just chalked it up to 'im missin 'er. Did 'e ever tell you bout Miss Adler?"

I was dumbfounded. "No, he didn't. Not ever. Who was she?" I dreaded the answer.

Maggie, blushed, and then stepped closer to me, as if in secret. "Well, Mrs. 'udson would be ashamed of me if I told ya, but I fink you might as well know what you're gettin into. Miss Adler was 'is mistress. She was a beau'iful woman, but as much trouble as she was worf, Mr. 'olmes just couldn't keep away from 'er. I fink she met 'er end in the last big case 'e worked on. The one wif the Professor. It was back in the winter, I fink."

My blood froze in my veins. Professor Moriarty. I remembered that case. It had made the papers all over the world. I pictured Holmes with a mysterious, beautiful woman, and my stomach dropped through my feet.

I could not accept the idea of Holmes with a woman…_with another woman…_and I suddenly felt terribly sad. My knees threatened to buckle and I almost swayed on the spot.

"Are you alright Miss Catherine? You look awfully pale, more than usual, I mean. Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." She realized what she said, and looked bashfully at the ground.

"N-no Maggie, I'm…I'm fine. I just need…more rest. Yes, I'll take a nap when I get back."

"But you still 'ave to take Mr. 'olmes 'is breakfast, remember?" She looked apprehensive, as though the thought of her bringing Holmes breakfast was abhorrent.

"Y-yes. I do. I'll do that once I get back. Then I'll rest."

"Are you sure you're alright Miss? 'ave I upset you?"

"Oh no Maggie, what could you have done to upset me? Please, don't let me make you late. I'll see you back home shortly." Home. It suddenly didn't feel like home anymore.

CKCKCKCKCKCKCKCKCKCK

I returned to Baker Street in a daze. Mrs. Hudson met me at the door.

"His breakfast is ready dear, though; I doubt he is even up yet. I heard him playing the violin at 4 this morning." She seemed calmer this morning, probably because Holmes was not awake. He had not had time to terrorize her yet.

"Yes mam. I will take it up to him. Would you mind if I let Chester roam around? He's already been outside." The atmosphere seemed altogether different now that I knew a woman besides the landlady and maid had walked the halls.

"Of course dear. There's nothing he could do that would be half as bad as what that man has done." She jerked her head toward the ceiling as she helped me take off my thin coat. I really needed to buy some new clothes. My wardrobe, while sufficient for Texas winters, was no match for England's latitude.

Mrs. Hudson hung my thin, battered coat on the rack beside the door, then led me through to the kitchen. Mrs. Gosling awaited with Holmes' breakfast tray of ham and eggs.

"I don't expect he's even up yet, though, with that man, you never can tell." The grey-haired woman always seemed pessimistic when referring to Holmes. Sometimes I wondered what he had done to all of these women to make them detest him so much. Yes, he was obnoxious and moody. He was loud, arrogant and discourteous. But, I had never seen him be mean or hateful to anyone. At worst, he was aloof and ignored everyone. I supposed I was one of the "few," quite possibly only two, women who was not totally horrified by Holmes' personality traits.

"I'll take it from here Mrs. Gosling." I picked up the tray and the china rattled as my hands shook.

"Are you alright dearie? You seem out of sorts." Mrs. Gosling's blue eyes clouded with worry. She was the kind of comforting, motherly type who could always make you feel better with a hug. I was afraid if she did hug me I might lose what little composure I possessed and burst into tears. Why on earth was I so emotional? All because I had learned that Holmes, just like every other man, enjoyed the company of women? He was a bachelor for goodness sakes, not a priest.

"I'm just a little tired. I did not get much sleep last night."

"It's not small wonder with that man playing the violin all night. Be sure and take a rest for yourself before lunch."

It took all of my concentration to keep my arms from shaking the tray of food. I felt weaker than usual, as though I had been up all night. In truth, I had slept only a few hours, but very deeply. I never heard Holmes playing his violin, and my room was right next to his.

I walked slowly up the stairs, silently praying that Holmes was indeed asleep so I would not have to face him, at least not yet. Once I reached the door I barely knocked so as not to wake him up. A pathetic little tap was all that was needed for the door to be yanked open and Holmes to appear, his face almost manic.

"How do you suppose I am to know my breakfast is ready if it sounds as if a mouse is tapping at the door?" His eyes were wide and bright, and he spoke so quickly that it took me a moment to digest what he said.

"I uh-" was my elegant reply. He disappeared from sight as quickly as he had shown up, and I took that as a signal to enter.

His room was very dark, with only a small shaft of light filtering through the curtains.

"How can you even see what you are doing?" I tried desperately to make my voice level. I thought I succeeded as I set his tray of food down and moved toward the door.

"Where are you off to? We have important matters to attend to. I asked you last night to tell me what you thought about Lady Sheffield's 'stolen' jewels. As my assistant, I expect you to attend to my every request. You may start with cutting my ham."

I did not even try to stifle the sigh that followed. "I am your assistant, not your mother. You may cut your own meat or not eat at all." I crossed my arms over my chest and stood with my foot out to the side. My stance was the same that I had seen my mother use time and again, it signified that I would not be moved.

"Ooh, I sense a sting from our little bee this morning." He flopped down in his desk chair and stabbed his ham with a fork, picking it up and eating it like a turkey leg.

"I'm more like a yellow jacket. Bees die after only one sting. Yellow jackets pack quite a whollop."

"I assume from your colloquialism you are referring to the wasp commonly known for its yellow and black stripes native to North America. You seem to speak from personal experience."

"I learned never to climb that tree again."

"Once bitten, twice as shy." He took another bite from his ham-on-a-fork with extra zeal.

I decided to take his bait, even as melancholic as I felt at the moment. The sooner I played his game the sooner I could leave and be by myself. I dropped into the armchair I had only occupied a few hours ago.

I shrugged, "Can you blame me?"

"Yes, I actually can. You let one bad experience change your outlook. Did you ever climb trees again? Imagine what you've missed."

"I've missed being stung by yellow jackets and falling off of branches and breaking my arm. I learned my lesson."

"You learned nothing. You let fear stop you from further adventures. Imagine all of the distance you could have seen from the top of that tree."

"What good would it have done me? There was never anything coming."

"Storms are always on the horizon, whether you see them or not."

"Would you come to your point, _please._" I leaned forward on my elbows, I was quickly becoming frustrated with him. I knew he could sense my moodiness, but he did not let that keep him from annoying me some more.

"What seems to be the trouble, m'lady? Not getting much sleep? Is Master Rochester keeping you up at night?" He wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively.

"You're one to talk, playing the violin at 4 in the morning."

"I happen to know for a fact you were asleep at the time." He finished his ham and began stirring his tea with rapid swirls. The spoon struck the china in quick succession.

"That's enough of your nonsense. You seem…agitated. Have you been up all night?" I stood up and walked over to him. He slurped up his tea and shoved his chair away from his desk as I approached. Just as he stood up, something fell out from under the tray. It landed on the floor with a small 'chink', as if it was glass. At first I thought it was a spoon or something so I reached down to get it just as Holmes reached down to do the same. My hand closed on the item just as his hand reached it, and I snatched it away from him, in an effort to annoy him as he had me for the past 5 minutes.

As soon as my hand closed over it I felt a sharp pain and opened my palm to see as syringe sticking out of my skin. I was astonished. Was he on some form of medication? Maybe I should ask Watson…

Just as my brain registered what it was, Holmes grabbed the syringe from my hand and threw it into the fireplace.

"What is that? Are you ill? Holmes what-?"

"That's enough for today. I'll call you when I need help with the case." He placed his hand at the small of my back to steer me towards the door. I felt the heat radiating from his skin through the fabric of my dress. He seemed feverish.

"Are you alright? What's going on?"

He almost shoved me out the door as he said, "Not to worry, come back tomorrow." He shut the door in my face, as he had on a number of previous occasions, but this time, it felt different. This time, something was wrong. I knew just who I needed to see, and I turned towards my room to change into something nicer.

**Author's note:** What do you think? I got some advice from a friend that I should have some more character intrigue. Think you know where it's going? I hope to update again in a couple of weeks, school is killer but maybe I'll get inspired before then. Have a great weekend!


	14. Chapter 14, The Girl You Lost to Cocaine

The Girl You Lost To Cocaine

"_So just cut me loose, learn to tie your shoes,_

_there's somebody here I'd like to introduce,_

_so look in the mirror, look for the glass,_

_cause you're not my problem…"_ Sia – The Girl You Lost to Cocaine

Watson's eyes looked at me sadly. His blue orbs seemed to search my face, looking for evidence that I was trustworthy. Mary sat on the couch beside me in Watson's office, and Gladstone lay on the carpet before the fire. His snoring and the ticking of the clock the only two sounds in the room at that moment.

"Mary," said Watson softly, "would you be so kind as to get us some tea?" I suddenly felt awkward. What could be so serious that Watson did not wish to discuss it in front of Mary?

Mary nodded, understanding his meaning, and rose to exit the room. She nodded at me as she passed, giving me a small, kind smile. I smiled weakly back at her, and missed her comforting presence once she left.

Watson rubbed his eyes, then put his hand to his mouth, deep in thought as he paced across the room, his desk behind him.

"What I am about to tell you, I have never told anyone, not even Mary. Not because I don't trust her, but for the sake of Holmes' privacy. I only feel you have the right to know because you now work with him and I feel like he…" he paused, "I think you should know." Watson turned and sat next to me on the couch, occupying the space Mary had vacated on my left. He leaned forward on his elbows, and I knew that the situation was serious because of his close proximity to me. Watson was a gentleman, but he seemed to almost try to assuage my fears by sitting close. It created an intimate environment, and I leaned forward, as if someone else may hear us, here in his own house.

"As I believe you already know, Holmes needs mental stimulation. He craves the puzzles that come with investigating cases. Solving cases is one of the very few things that distract him from his other…less desirable occupations."

Watson sighed, and leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. "Holmes is an addict, Catherine. He suffers from an addiction to cocaine. I have tried on several occasions to wean him off of his drug, but he always goes back to it when he is in emotional or mental distress. The last time that he had a relapse, that I was aware of, was last winter."

"When she died." The words erupted from my mouth, and I covered my traitorous lips. Watson looked at me with surprise in his eyes.

"He didn't tell you did he…?" He asked in disbelief.

"N-no, I…found out." I averted my gaze to Gladstone as he rolled over onto his back.

"Was it Mrs. Hudson?" Watson raised a questioning brow.

"No…it was…Maggie." My chin nodded down to my chest in defeat.

"Ah," he chuckled to himself, "I might've guessed."

"Who was she?" Why did I ask questions to which I already knew the answers? A twisted part of my heart needed to know, to know it to be true, even if it would pain me.

He sighed, obviously not expecting the conversation to take this turn, but relieved I had not reacted to his revelation about Holmes' addiction.

"Her name was Irene Adler. She was a thief, though that word hardly does her justice. She was incredibly manipulative, almost as cunning as Holmes himself. He was completely taken with her the moment he met her."

"How was she involved in the Moriarty case?" My curiosity overrode my jealously of the memory of this woman. Watson blinked rapidly; I could tell that his mind was shifting topics.

"She foolishly offered her services to that despicable Professor Moriarty. I don't think she knew at the time what his plans were, or that he and Holmes would come to such odds. From what I know, she even tried to save Holmes from Moriarty, but she suffered for her connection with both of them. Moriarty did not allow any loose ends in his devious schemes. Holmes found out Moriarty had killed her in order to punish him, but, I doubt he would have let her live even if she had never known Holmes."

I suddenly felt cold, thinking about this woman Holmes had cared for, probably even loved, being murdered. I imagined the pain and hopelessness he must have felt, and I understood why he might have turned to any means of distracting himself.

Then it occurred to me, what had happened recently to cause Holmes' relapse?

"Dr. Watson, has anything happened to him recently to make him resort to his addiction? I was under the impression he was, at least for him, behaving normally."

Watson paused, and his eyes darted briefly to my face. I could sense that he was hiding something.

"With Holmes, there is no way to really know what is going on in his mind. I am his closest friend and even I am astounded at his actions most of the time."

Still, I pushed for answers. "So you have no idea what's gotten into him? None at all?" I looked him in the eye, my gaze steady, and I saw he was unable to meet it for very long.

"I'm afraid I have about as much of an idea as you do." He shook his head, and crossed his arms in front of him.

I decided to push him, I was not in the mood to be dismissed. At that moment, I could sense why Holmes would be so comfortable with him; I felt a kinship, a familiarity.

"You are a terrible liar Watson," I smiled at him knowingly. In my haste to goad him, I had dropped his title. I had referred to him the way Holmes did, and I immediately regretted my cheek.

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Watson. I don't know what's come over me." I decided to play the bashful maiden. "Here you are, telling me more than you would ever have to, and I challenge your honesty." I did feel a little guilty, though, probably not as much as I should.

"It's quite alright." He appeared satisfied that he had distracted me, so he was allowing my mistake to slide.

"I'm afraid I've been acting too familiar with you. Please forgive me." I respected Watson, and had no intention of indicating otherwise. He was important to Holmes, and had always been a kind gentleman to me. What right did I have to question him? But I still felt he was hiding something. He must have a reason, because he had shared so much with me already, he did trust me, at least to a certain degree.

Maybe what he wasn't telling me was that Holmes had met another woman, but who? I realized I had become a jealous ninny, and decided I must do something to distract myself. I could go back to 221 Baker Street, and hope Holmes would talk to me, either about the case or just about anything at all. On the other hand, I could do something for myself, instead of waiting for him to get his act together. I couldn't move on the Sheffield case without him, not really. I still had no idea where he got his theory about her being the real culprit. If he wasn't worried about solving it, why should I be?

Even though his current state of mind frustrated me exceedingly, there was nothing I could do to change him. I had known the man for a little over a month, and even I knew there was no use trying to change his mood or get him to do anything he did not want to do. I had picked that up on first meeting him. He was not only purposefully stubborn, but he had this steadfastness about him, like a cement block that wasn't meant to be moved. You just had to appreciate it for where it was and use it to your advantage.

The block wasn't moving, and it was addicted to cocaine. I still wanted to help the block, but my mother had always said, you can't help people who don't want to help themselves. There was no use trying to move him. It was really out of my hands. My heart ached when I realized this, but it was true. Only he could help himself, and even Watson knew that.

All of this inner monologue took place within a matter of seconds, like different currents in the same river of thought, overlapping, going in the same direction but with different sources.

I came back to myself as Watson rose from his seat. Mary entered at that moment with tea, making eye contact with her husband to see if he was comfortable with her presence. She glanced at me, as if to see if I was all right, and seemed satisfied with what she saw.

"Mary," I asked tentatively, "would you mind helping me go shopping again? I really do need some more clothes, and if I'm going to be working with Holmes, I'll need some more appropriate things to wear." At the moment, I was wearing the nicest dress I owned, next to the new one Mary and I had bought the day before.

"I would be delighted." She smiled her kind smile at me, her grey eyes twinkling. She seemed pleased that Watson and I had finished with our discussion and no one was upset. "We'll set out after tea. I have a number of shops I want to show you…"

SHSHSHSH SHSHSHSH SHSHSHSH SHSHSHSH

Mary and I stood at the corner of the street, each of our arms laden with packages and parcels. It was quite a haul, not to mention the number of packages that were due to be delivered in the next two days. I had spent a great deal of Mr. Weatherby's reward money, but I could not be more pleased. I finally felt like a proper lady with a proper London wardrobe.

As we waited for a break in the flow of carriages and even a few motor cars, I listened to a young man yell to passersby, trying to sell newspapers on the street.

"Breaking News! Lady Sheffield robbed at local restaurant! Authorities baffled…"

I turned my head to him at the same moment as Mary did, and we caught each others eye. My hands were full, so I had to maneuver a few things around in order to take a few coins from the pocket of my dress. "I'll take one." Holmes probably had not left his room all day and would be interested in the news.

"Fank ya madam!" The young man tipped his hat to me as I shoved the newspaper in between packages, hoping it would not drop out. I would have to wait until we reached Baker Street to find out what Lady Sheffield had said to Scotland Yard.

Once Mary and I reached Holmes' residence, we were aided by Maggie and Mrs. Hudson in getting our packages upstairs. I asked Mary to stay for lunch, but she declined, saying she had to attend to business at home. I thanked her for her help, and she departed. Chester had quite a time inspecting my discarded boxes and tissue paper. He was rather like a cat that way. There was a moment of panic when he got a paper bag stuck on his head, but I quickly helped him out of his predicament. I rearranged my wardrobe, taking advantage of the many cabinets Watson had vacated when he moved out, and took the liberty of putting on one of my new dresses, a deep purple velveteen suit I absolutely adored. I had never worn such finery in my life and I was overcome with giddy vanity.

After I had my lunch, I decided I would try to give Holmes one more chance to join the living. I knocked, rather loudly this time, on his door, and put my ear to the cool wood to listen for any sign of movement. I heard nothing, and decided to leave his sandwich to Chester as I turned around. I was halfway across the hall when I heard his door creak open.

A rough, dry voice spoke behind me, stifled by the small opening in the doorway, "I knew it was you by your gait, even though your dress and shoes made a different sound. Been spending poor Mr. Weatherby's money? To think, you've been out shopping while I sit, toiling away on this new case."

He's trying to smooth things over, I thought. I'll let him, it won't get me anywhere to fight with him about his habits. He's a grown man.

"You told me to come back tomorrow." I turned around to see that he had finally opened the door the full way. His frayed dressing gown flapped open, and I noticed he was not wearing a shirt as I caught a glimpse of pale flesh. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks as I struggled to swallow.

He did not even blink as he replied, "I did, so why are you here now?" Damn, I had trapped myself within his web of logic. Fine, let him just be that way.

I stepped toward him with the tray still in hand, when I saw him retreat slightly. "No thank you, I'll have nothing." Why had he opened the door if he didn't want anything to eat? The drug probably affected his appetite. So be it.

"Very well, but you should at least take the paper. You might find the front page of interest." I saw the light almost return to his eyes for a brief second, and he snatched the paper from the top of the tray, causing the teacup and saucer to spin dangerously. My eyes widened as I shifted the tray to keep the china from falling to the floor.

Holmes had barely glanced at the front page when he said, "Take that back to the kitchen. Bring black coffee and nothing else." He shut the door, and I descended the stairs to fulfill his order. At least he was speaking to me. He couldn't be too upset at my discovery if he was willing to work with me. I took consolation in that thought as I entered the kitchen.

**Author's Note:** Sorry to leave you hanging, hah. I hope that the next chapter should be up in about a week, at least in less than two weeks. I got one great review for the last chapter, but you guys seem quiet. I'd like to hear your input. Why do you think Holmes has relapsed? What do you think is the behind the mysterious Lady Sheffield's accusations? There will be more Holmes and Catherine in the next chapter, I need to get some character development in this time. If I get stuck, I have all sorts of one-shot ideas that don't necessarily follow the story line but are lots of fun. If I get some more reviews, I might consider posting them.


	15. Chapter 15, Pictures

Pictures

"_You have her pictures_

_You have her pictures_

_You have her pictures _

_Everywhere_

_You're covered in stitches_

_You're covered in stitches_

_You think I can't see them_

_But I know they're there…"_ Sia – Pictures

Holmes drank the searing hot coffee in a few gulps, slammed the cup back on the tray, and said, "So, do you have an idea as to why Lady Sheffield may have claimed her jewels were stolen?" He sat in his desk chair, looking at me expectantly, picking up his violin and playing it with his calloused fingers.

I stood beside him at his desk. I had to keep myself from saying, 'Of course not', by putting my hand to my mouth in mock concentration.

"Well, yes, I have an idea, but what do _you_ think?" I must try and turn the tables on him.

"I asked you first." Drat.

"I asked you second."

"For god's sake woman, tell me what you think." He strummed a few notes, shifting his gaze, looking past me, his eyes wide and unseeing.

I thought for a moment. Why would a well-to-do woman want to pretend her jewels were stolen, and practically frame someone else for the crime?

"She wants the attention." I felt like that was a legitimate guess. "Rich women get bored, maybe her son ignores her?"

"That is always an option. What else?" Holmes stroked some more notes from his violin, one by one.

"She is…maybe she needs the insurance money? Maybe she is in debt?"

"Another good option. But not the real reason. What else?"

"I don't know. It seems like such an elaborate charade to go through for something unimportant. What could she possibly be thinking? Is she protecting someone?"

"That is another clever scenario, but I'm afraid that it is not the true reason behind her actions."

"Would you care to enlighten me? I've already told you what I think; obviously it's not the answer you were looking for."

"Did you read the news article?"

"Yes, briefly. Should I read it again?" He reached behind him without looking and held the folded newspaper out toward me. As I reached out to take it, he pulled it back again, just out of reach. I sighed in irritation, my hand still held out in the air between us. I had half a mind to reach out to try to take it from him. Just as I was coiling my muscles to spring at him and wrench the paper from his grasp, he handed it out toward me again. This time, it was I who did the snatching, and turned away from him to read the article over again.

"Be sure and pay attention this time, or I shall have to fire you." He stood up to wander over to his bow, finally deciding to play the instrument correctly.

"I should be so lucky." I mumbled loud enough for him to hear me.

"How can you say that? You have only been working for me less than a week and already you are getting too big for your breeches. You've wounded me to the quick." He turned to me with large brown eyes, what my grandmother would have called 'hound dog eyes,' and gazed at me pathetically. He topped off his show by playing some mournful tune. I gave him a look that said how truly sorry I was, indicated by the severe rolling of my eyes, and lifted the paper in front of me.

"**Robbery at Michelle's! Lady Niles Sheffield's jewels stolen during dinner!**

_Detective Arthur Lestrade of Scotland Yard reported that Lady Sheffield, wife of the late Lord Niles Sheffield, was robbed of her jewelry during a visit to the Ladies' room at Michelle's restaurant yesterday evening. Lady Sheffield reportedly retired to the fainting couch where she fell unconscious for several minutes. Upon her awakening, Lady Sheffield's diamond necklace was missing right from off of her person. The Ladies' room attendant was searched and interviewed but found to be an unlikely suspect in this curious crime. No other suspects are in custody at this time, but Detective Lestrade is emphatic that an arrest will be made, and soon._

"_This criminal is adept at thievery and misdirection. Anyone who was at Michelle's at the time of the robbery who noticed anything unusual should come forward immediately. Any leads will be dealt with accordingly."_

_The poor victim, Lady Sheffield, had her own message for the public:_

"_Any woman who values her safety and belongings should have the utmost awareness of all the goings on around her at all times. No one is safe, if someone of my station could be robbed in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I hold the perpetrator of this crime in the highest contempt, and it is my wish that once apprehended, he shall be punished to the fullest extent of the law. It is my personal belief that women should take care to keep their valuables at home until this criminal is off the streets. I hope dearly that I may be the only victim of this terrible thief's intentions._

The article continued with very little information about the theft. There was no mention of Sherlock Holmes being at the restaurant at the time of the crime, or that he was on the case. Maybe Lestrade was trying to keep the details of the investigation unknown. I lowered the paper briefly, before scanning it a third time for any missed information.

"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes. He paced about the room, teasing notes from the chords of his instrument.

"Well," I sat down in the wing-backed chair I had occupied several times in the last few days, "she obviously wanted to make herself known. She was not ashamed of being robbed, she seemed keen to alert the public as to what had happened. I would think that a woman of her position in society would be embarrassed about the theft, instead of openly declaring her role as the victim of a robbery."

"Your line of reasoning is sound. It is odd that a woman of her status should make such a fuss about being robbed, but then we come to our original question. What are her motives? _Why_ would she lie about being robbed?"

"Are you absolutely sure that she is lying?"

He snorted, "I have no doubt of it. Are you questioning my methods?"

"Of course not, I would not dare insinuate that you were _wrong_." My voice dripped with sarcasm. "I just thought it might be a good idea on my part to make sure your logic is sound. You question me, why can't I question you?"

"Because…" and he stopped playing long enough to berate me, "_I_ am the detective, and _you_" and at this he pointed his bow straight at my chest, "are my lowly assistant, doomed to dwell in the wake of my brilliance, and take my word as law."

"If you want my opinion, and you have said several times that you do, than you must deal with my thought process and that comes with questioning everything, even the things we think we know to be true. How else can you come up with the answer except to examine all of the evidence, and from every viewpoint?"

He gazed at me, his face completely inscrutable. I felt slightly embarrassed at being so forward, but what did he expect? He had put me on the spot.

"And besides," I rose from my seat and approached him, his bow now held by his side instead of as the symbolic weapon he had used moments before, "just because I question you does not mean I think any less of you. Consider it a compliment; I am simply making you work to prove your case that much harder."

I had no idea where this sudden inspiration seized me from, but I knew I had intrigued him. He would never admit it, but I had. I could see the gears of his mind working as I looked into his dark eyes. I felt warm all over and unconsciously tugged at the collar of my dress and, without thinking, pulled my sleeves up to show my delicate wrists. The movement was pure habit, but I noticed how his eyes darted to the left, as thought he was forcefully trying to keep himself from looking at my exposed flesh.

Why should he care if I pull up my sleeves? The man answered the door in his dressing gown without a shirt. Propriety was obviously not something he valued. That much was clear when he had broken into my room and rummaged through my belongings.

I used the tool he had used on me before to put me on my guard, I invaded his personal space. How long would he let me get away with challenging him? It would be interesting to find out. I stepped closer, closing the gap between us, from six feet to three feet, and then just one. I looked up into his face; I did not have to tilt my head far at all because he was not a tall man. I liked that about him, his presence was full of such magnitude that one forgot how short he was. I was almost his height, how tall must he be? Surely not over five feet ten inches, I was five foot five inches myself. I was usually ashamed of my height, I felt so unfeminine, being so tall. Grandma Ninny had said men like petite girls, and I was nowhere near petite.

As soon as I had reached about a foot away from him, he turned, and I mirrored his movements. He still faced me, but situated us now so that my back was to the wall instead of his. We had circled each other, and now I was the one whose personal space was being invaded. I knew it amused him to make me uncomfortable, and I also knew that he probably intended to punish me for my cheek. It did not bother him that women and men who were not their husbands or kin were not supposed to ever be so close to one another. If Mrs. Hudson had happened to walk in, she would have thought he was being untoward, but I knew better. He always had a reason for everything he did, even if that reason was completely oblivious to everyone else around him.

He simply leaned towards me, looking at my face with his piercing gaze, calculating his next move. I backed up as far as I could and felt myself bump into a table against the wall behind me. That sudden movement seemed to break the war of wills we were in, and I turned back to see what I had knocked over.

"Oh, I'm sorry." I saw a few things had tipped over, a candle, a stack of books, and a picture frame. I set about putting everything to rights when his hand suddenly reached out to stop mine from setting the overturned picture upright. I never considered that it had been face down to begin with. His touch was so light that I had not understood what he did not want me to do, and just placed the picture back up without realizing what he meant.

I only saw the picture for a split second, but it was enough to register what it was. I saw the profile of a beautiful woman, her hair curled and placed attractively at the back of her head. I noticed that she was wearing kohl around her eyes, giving her a mysterious, alluring stare. Her face was immobile, but she looked like she would be very animated in person. It was as if I noticed all this in slow motion before his hand came down on the picture, placing it face down.

For a moment, I was afraid I had angered him, but then I realized that hardly anything could really anger him. He was so unemotional. Nevertheless, I knew I had unsettled him at the very least.

"I'm sorry." I mumbled. I had seen what he did not want others to see. I had encroached upon his _true _personal space without even realizing it. I felt like I had seriously invaded his privacy even though I had simply looked at a picture that was framed, presumably meant to be seen.

I swallowed slowly, drawing up my courage. I still had not looked at him. "Who is she?" What on _earth_ was I thinking? _Why_ did I have to be so nosy? Besides, I knew very well who she was.

"Someone that I used to know," was all he said. I knew that was the end of the conversation. He turned quickly away in retreat, and I knew I should move away from the picture as hastily as I could.

His back was turned to me, and he began playing the violin again. For some reason, I felt like I should put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. I did not dare do such a thing, but my arm still twitched from the thought. I laced my fingers together, staring at the ground and bouncing on the balls of my feet. I let him play for a few moments before I asked him, "Do you wish to continue our discussion or should I return later?"

"Nonsense. Why would you want to cease our discussion, are you feeling ill? You look a little peaky." He was trying to ruffle my feathers to change the subject.

"I'm tired."

"You are always tired."

"You are one to talk. You hardly ever sleep."

"You don't see me moping about with hooded, sunken eyes. Do try to take more care of yourself. All those years of lack of sleep are beginning to wear on you. Those dark circles under your eyes have become permanent."

If he had wanted to upset me, he had succeeded, and I was more than prepared to fight back.

"Not all of us have such _stimulating_ habits to keep us awake. Do try to take more care of _your_self. We wouldn't want you to become over excited, now would we? That twitch will become permanent if you don't watch it."

Hah, I had him. Of course, he knew I had discovered his weakness, but I doubted he knew exactly how observant I had been. Now I knew what that twitch in his left hand really meant. I never knew my voice could sound so venomous. I almost frightened myself with my ferocity. Obviously, his drug habit bothered me more than I thought it did.

I actually made him turn around to look at me with my statement. He had no idea I was so observant. I think the comment about the twitch reached him through his clouded ego.

"Well now, so she does bite back." His manner was easy but his eyes had a sharpness to them. He drew his bow across the violin, causing a shrill sound to erupt that hurt my ears. I had not exactly hit a nerve, but I had surprised him. He was obviously unused to being surprised.

"Only when backed into a corner." I was as angry as a wet cat.

"I'll keep that in mind." He was still trying to remain aloof, but I had gotten to him. He went silent, and suddenly his demeanor changed, as though a thought had occurred to him.

"You really need an avenue to channel that ferocity Miss Keaton." He caught me off guard again. What was he on about?

"Excuse me?" I wasn't offended, not anymore. I was more confused than anything.

"As my assistant, you may occasionally find yourself in a somewhat…difficult situation now and then. Watson knew how to handle himself, but you, as a woman, have no idea how to defend yourself if the situation calls for it. What would you say to me teaching you ways in which to channel your anger into protecting yourself, and maybe even attacking someone else?"

"What on earth do you mean? Are you talking about, like, fighting? Hitting and kicking?" I was dumbfounded. A lady never, ever, raised her voice, as I had done just now, and especially never struck anyone. Ever. Not even if her life depended on it.

"Let me put it this way, you either listen to me and allow me to teach you manners with which you may be able to defend yourself whenever the occasion calls for it, and it will call for it; or, you can forfeit your position as my assistant. I have no use for anyone on whom I cannot fully rely. If I have to constantly save you from certain unsavory situations, it would hardly be worth it to me now wouldn't it?"

"How often do you have a need to physically defend yourself? Is it really that often?" I was in shock.

He turned to me, put down both his violin and bow on the carpet, and stepped toward me, tugging at his shirt he had thrown on while I was retrieving his coffee. I was briefly taken aback, and stepped away from him. I was not afraid, only embarrassed at his quick movement toward me.

He paused within a few feet, and pulled down the right side of his shirt, showing his upper right torso and shoulder. There I saw a savage, heinous looking scar etched into his flesh. It looked like it had been agonizing to acquire, and I gasped, my hand to my mouth. I swore, "Oh my god!"

Until that moment I had only caught glimpses of his toned chest, but now, when he had opened his shirt, I got a full view of the injury he had sustained in one of these 'unsavory situations' he often participated in.

"Do…do you really mean, that I…I should be able to help you, to defend myself in situations that injured you that badly? How on earth could I do that?"

"That was an especially dangerous scenario. I do not intend to ever find myself in a similar situation, but I must insist that you agree to undergo instruction if you are to continue assisting me." He was serious.

I stared at him numbly. "Okay." _What!? _What was I saying? _Take it back Catherine!_ Had I lost my mind?

He released his shirt, "Fantastic. We begin this evening."

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered without asking permission. "Pardon me Mr. Holmes, but Miss Keaton has a visitor."

My eyes went wide, "Who could it be? I don't know anyone here in London." My nerves immediately set in. Meeting people always made me anxious.

"He's waiting in the parlor." She gave me a mischievous look; for some reason she wanted Holmes to know that I had a caller.

"Very well, I'll be right down." I turned to Holmes, "Are we still on for what is it? Training? This evening?"

"If that gentleman caller of yours doesn't steal you away." His face was back to his aloof nonchalance, though I was willing to bet he was curious about my visitor. He just didn't want to show it.

I sighed, "We'll figure it out later then." I turned and left, closing the door behind me.

I went into my room, making sure Chester was not up to mischief, and decided to take him down with me. If the man did not like my dog, I would not like him. I straightened my hair, patted my cheeks, and bit my lips to bring a bit of color to my usually pale face. I carried Chester down the stairs, completely unaware of who could possibly be calling on me.

As I entered the parlor, I saw the handsome Nathan Perry, the manager of the fish market I had virtually destroyed. Oh good Lord! Was he pressing charges?

"Hello Miss Keaton. I see you are well. And who is this fine gentleman?" He stood with his hands holding his gloves in front of him.

"Th-this is Mr. Chester Rochester, at your service." My gaze darted between Chester and Mr. Perry, my eyes wide, awaiting his response.

"It is a pleasure, Mr. Rochester," he took Chester's paw, and shook it gently. This touched my heart in a small way. My mother always said you could tell how a man would treat children by the way he was with animals.

"Miss Keaton, I have a favor to ask of you." His bright grey gaze sent butterflies fluttering through my abdomen.

"Y-yes sir, whatever I can do to help. I did cause a great deal of mischief at your establishment." Oh dear, I hoped I had not gotten myself too deeply into trouble.

He laughed gently; it was a nice laugh. "This is not about that Miss Keaton, it rather pertains to you. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner tomorrow evening?"

**Author's Note:** Ooh, cliffhanger. Muahahaha. You know how I love those. I'll make you all a deal, if I get five reviews, I will post a great one-shot of Catherine and Holmes as soon as I get the reviews. It's a long one too, it just doesn't necessarily follow my plot-line. I still think you'd like it though. I guess you could pretend it happened within the first month of their meeting, a day or so before the first chapter even. Whatever you want, just REVIEW. I have been getting some great input from my loyal frequent reviewers, and that's been awesome, I really appreciate it.

On a side note, I need some help with some information about England. Could one of my British viewers help me out? What I need to know is:

What is the weather like? In the summer, fall, winter? Does it snow often? How cold does it get?

How do you guys celebrate Halloween, or is that more of an American thing? My only experience with British culture comes from (you guessed it) reading novels; ie. Harry Potter. I've got a great idea for a possible one-shot and I'd like some expert advice from folks who live in Britain.

Are there any special Christmas traditions? Foods or otherwise? Is mistletoe a common tradition? (wink, wink)

Thanks again for reading my little story, and I really hope to hear from you all,

-Herstorian


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